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BRAINARD'S  POEMS. 


i 


OCCASIONAL 


PIECES     OF     POETRY 


BY  JOHN  G.  C.N.BRAINARD. 


borne  said,  «  John,  print  it;"  others  said, "  Not  so  }"— 
Some  said,  "  It  might  do  good ;"  others  said, "  No." 

'j  Apology 


NEW-YORK: 

PRINTED  FOR  E.  BLISS  AND  E.  WHITE- 

Clayton  $  Van  Nordcn,  Printers. 

1825. 


Southern  District  oflfe-w-YorJc^ss. 

(L.  S.)  BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  seventeenth  day  of  March,  A- 
1X1825,  in  the  forty-ninth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  J.  G.  C.  Brainard,  of  the  said  district,  hath  deposited  in  this  office  the 
title  of  a  book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  author,  in  the  words  following', 
»o  wit : 

Occasional  Pieces  of  Poetry.    By  John  G.C.  Brainard. 

Some  said,  "  John  print  it  f  others  said,   "  Ifot  so  ,•" 
Some  said,  "  It  might  do  good;"  others  said,  '•  TVo." 

Bttnyan's  Apology. 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled,  "  An 
act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts, 
and  books,  to  the  authors  nnd  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  time 
therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  the  act,  entitled,  "An  act,  supplementary  to 
an  act,  entitled,  an  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  co 
pies  of  map?,  cliarts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies, 
during  the  times  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to 
arts  the  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  DILL, 
Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  ofNew- York. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THE  author  of  the  following  pieces  has 
been  induced  to  publish  them  in  a  book, 
from  considerations  which  cannot  be  inte 
resting  to  the  public.  Many  of  these  little 
poems  have  been  printed  in  the  Connecticut 
Mirror ;  and  the  others  are  just  fit  to  keep 
them  company.  No  apologies  are  made, 
and  no  criticisms  deprecated.  The  common 
place  story  of  the  importunities  of  friends, 
though  it  had  its  share  in  the  publication,  is 
not  insisted  upon  ;  but  the  vanity  of  the 
author,  if  others  choose  to  call  it  such,  is  a 
natural  motive,  and  the  hope  of  "  making  a 
little  something  by  it,"  is  an  honest  acknow 
ledgment,  if  it  is  a  poor  excuse. 


M898883 


INDEX. 


Page 

The  Fall  of  Niagara, 5 

Matchit  Moodus, 6 

On  the  Death  of  Commodore  Perry, 10 

A  Mariner's  Song, '.13 

Epithalamium, 14 

Introduction  to  a  Lady's  Album, 15 

The  Shad  Spirit, 1? 

The  Tree  Toad, 10 

Spring.     To  Miss , 21 

On  the  Birthday  of  Washington, • 23 

Lines  suggested  by  a  melancholy  Accident, 25 

On  a  late  Loss, 27 

On  the  Death  of  the  Rev.  L.  Parsons, 28 

On  the  project  of  colonizing  the  "  Free  People  of  Colour"  in 

Africa, 30 

To  the  Marquis  La  Fayette, 31 

Maniac's  Song, 33 

To  the  memory  of  Charles  Brockdcn  Brown, 35 

Lord  Exmouth's  Victory, 37 

Written  for  a  Lady's  Common-Place  Book, 41 

The  Lost  Pleiad, 43 

The  Alligator, , 44 

The  Sea  Gull, 45 

The  Captain.    A  Fragment, 47 

Extracts  from  Verses  written  for  the  New- Year,  1823, 51 


»v 


Page 
The  Newport  Tower, , 56 

The  Thunder  Storm, 59 

To  a  Missionary, •  .  .  .  » 61 

The  Robber, 63 

Sonnet  to  the  Sea  Serpent, 65 

"Acs  Alienum," 66 

The  Guerrilla, 67 

Jack  Frost  and  the  Caty-did, 69 

Mr.  Merry's  Lament  for  "  Long  Tom," 72 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Woodward, 74 

To  the  Dead, 76 

The  Deep, 77 

The  Good  Samaritan, .73 

The  Nosegay, 81 

To  a  String  tied  round  a  Finger, 33 

Salmon  River, g^ 

The  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  River, 88 

One  that's  on  the  Sea, gj 

Presidential  Cotillion, 95 

The  Bar  versus  the  Docket, 99 

Jerusalem, g8 

Isaiah,  thirty-fifth  chapter, 103 

The  Indian  Summer, 105 

For  a  Common-Place  Book, .    106 

On  the  loss  of  a  Pious  Friend, .    107 

The  Two  Comets, t   log 


THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

Labitur  et  labetur. 

THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  GOD  pour'd  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seem'd  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
«  The  sound  of  many  waters  ;"  and  had  bade 
T  hy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  Hiscent'ries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
Oh  !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
/n  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ! 


And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  tbou  to  HIM, 
Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heap'd  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


MATCHIT  MOODUS. 

A  travellei,  who  accidentally  passed  through  East  Had- 
dam,  made  several  inquiries  as  to  the  "  Moodus  noises,"  that 
are  peculiar  to  that  part  of  the  country.  Many  particulars 
were  related  to  him  of  their  severity  and  effects,  and  of  the 
means  that  had  been  taken  to  ascertain  their  cause,  and  pre 
vent  their  recurrence.  He  was  told  that  the  simple  and  ter 
rified  inhabitants,  in  the  early  settlement  of  the  town,  applied 
to  a  book-learned  and  erudite  man  from  England,  by  the 
name  of  Doctor  Steele,  who  undertook,  by  magic,  to  allay  their 
terrors;  and  for  this  purpose  took  the  sole  charge  of  a  black 
smith's  shop,  in  which  he  worked  by  night,  and  from  which 
he  excluded  all  admission,  tightly  stopping  and  darkening  the 
place,  to  prevent  any  prying  curiosity  from  interfering  with 
his  occult  operations.  He  however  so  far  explained  the  cause 
of  these  noises  as  to  say,  that  they  were  owing  to  a  carbuncle, 
which  must  have  grown  to  a  great  size,  in  the  bowels  of  the 
rocks  ;  and  that  if  it  could  be  removed,  the  noises  would  cease, 
until  another  should  grow  in  its  place.  The  noises  ceased— 


the  doctor  departed,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  It 
was  supposed  that  he  took  the  carbuncle  with  him.  Thus 
far  was  authentic.  A  little  girl,  who  had  anxiously  noticed 
the  course  of  the  traveller's  inquiries,  sung  for  his  further  edifi 
cation  the  following  ballad : 

SEE  you  upon  the  lonely  moor, 

A  crazy  building  rise  ? 
No  hand  dares  venture  to  open  the  door — 
No  footstep  treads  its  dangerous  floor — 

No  eye  in  its  secrets  pries. 

Now  why  is  each  crevice  stopp'd  so  tight  ? 

Say,  why  the  bolted  door  ? 
Why  glimmers  at  midnight  the  forge's  light — 
All  day  is  the  anvil  at  rest,  but  at  night 

The  flames  of  the  furnace  roar  ? 

Is  it  to  arm  the  horse's  heel, 

That  the  midnight  anvil  rings  ? 
Is  it  to  mould  the  ploughshare's  steel, 
Or  is  it  to  guard  the  wagon's  wheel, 

That  the  smith's  sledge-hammer  swings  ? 


8 

The  iron  is  bent,  and  the  crucible  stands 

With  alchymy  boiling  up  ; 
Its  contents  were  mix'd  by  unknown  hands, 
And  no  mortal  nre  e'er  kindled  the  brands, 

That  heated  that  corner'd  cup. 

O'er  Moodus  river  a  light  has  glanc'd. 

On  Moodus  hills  it  shone  ; 
On  the  granite  rocks  the  rays  have  danc'd, 
And  upward  those  creeping  lights  advanc'd, 

Till  they  met  on  the  highest  stone. 

O  that  is  the  very  wizard  place, 

And  now  is  the  wizard  hour, 
By  the  light  that  was  conjur'd  up  to  trace, 
Ere  the  star  that  falls  can  run  its  race, 

The  seat  of  the  earthquake's  power. 

By  that  unearthly  light,  I  see 

A  figure  strange  alone — 
With  magic  circlet  on  his  knee, 
And  deck'd  with  Satan's  symbols,  he 

Seeks  for  the  hidden  stone. 


Now  upward  goes  that  gray  old  man, 

With  mattock,  bar  and  spade — 
The  summit  is  gain'd,  and  the  toil  began, 
And  deep  by  the  rock  where  the  wild  lights  ran, 

The  magic  trench  is  made. 


Loud  and  yet  louder  was  the  groan 

That  sounded  wide  and  far  ; 
And  deep  and  hollow  was  the  moan, 
That  roll'd  around  the  bedded  stone, 
Where  the  workman  plied  his  bar. 


Then  upward  streamed  the  brilliant's  light, 
It  streamed  o'er  crag  and  stone  : — 

Dim  look'd  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  that  night ; 

But  when  morning  carne  in  her  glory  bright, 
The  man  and  the  jewel  were  gone. 

But  wo  to  the  hark  in  which  he  flew 

From  Moodus'  rocky  shore  ; 
Wo  to  the  Captain,  and  wo  to  the  crew, 
That  ever  the  breath  of  life  they  drew, 

When  that  dreadful  freight  they  bore. 


10 

Where  is  that  crew  and  vessel  now  ? 

Tell  me  their  state  who  can  ? 
The  wild  waves  dash  o'er  their  sinking  bow — 
Down,  down  to  the  fathomless  depths  they  go, 

To  sleep  with  a  sinful  man. 

The  carbuncle  lies  in  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Beneath  the  mighty  wave  ; 
But  the  light  shines  upwards  so  gloriously, 
That  the  sailor  looks  pale,  and  forgets  his  glee. 

When  he  crosses  the  wizard's  grave. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

COMMODORE  OLIVER  H.  PERRY. 

By  strangers  honour'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd. 

How  sad  the  note  of  that  funereal  drum, 
That's  muffled  by  indifference  to  the  dead  J 

And  how  reluctantly  the  echoes  come, 

On  air  that  sighs  not  o'er  that  stranger's  bed, 
Who  sleeps  with  death  alone.     O'er  his  young  head 


11 

His  native  breezes  never  more  shall  sigh  ; 

On  his  lone  grave  the  careless  step  shall  tread, 
And  pestilential  vapours  soon  shall  dry 
Each   shrub   that  buds   around — each    flow'r   that 
blushes  nigh. 

Let  Genius,  poising  on  her  full-fledg'd  wing, 

Fill  the  charm'd  air  with  thy  deserved  praise  : 
Of  war,  and  blood,  and  carnage  let  her  sing, 

Of  victory  and  glory  ! — let  her  gaze 

On  the  dark  smoke  that  shrouds  the  cannon's  blaze. 
On  the  red  foam  that  crests  the  bloody  billow  ; 

Then  mourn  the  sad  close  of  thy  shorten'd  days — 
Place  on  thy  country's  brow  the  weeping  willow, 
And  plant  the  laurels   thick   around  thy   last  cold 
pillow. 

No  sparks  of  Grecian  fire  to  me  belong  : 

Alike  uncouth  the  poet  and  the  lay  ; 
Unskill'd  to  turn  the  mighty  tide  of  song, 

He  floats  along  the  current  as  he  may, 

The  humble  tribute  of  a  tear  to  pay. 
Another  hand  may  choose  another  theme, 

May  sing  of  Nelson's  last  and  brightest  day, 
Of  Wolfe's  unequall'd  and  unrivali'd  fame, 
The  wave  of  Trafalgar — the  field  of  Abraham : 


12 

But  if  the  wild  winds  of  thy  western  lake 

Might  teach  a  harp  that  fain  would  mourn  the  brave. 

And  sweep  those  strings  the  minstrel  may  not  wake, 
Or  give  an  echo  from  some  secret  cave 
That  opens  on  romantic  Erie's  wave, 

The  feeble  cord  would  not  be  swept  in  vain  ; 
And  tho'  the  sound  might  never  reach  thy  grave, 

Yet  there  are  spirits  here,  that  to  the  strain 

Would  send  a  still  small  voice  responsive  back  again. 

And  though  the  yellow  plague  infest  the  air ; 

Though  noxious  vapours  blight  the  turf,  where  rest 
The  manly  form,  and  the  bold  heart  of  war ; 

Yet  should  that  deadly  isle  afar  be  blest ! 

For  the  fresh  breezes  of  thy  native  west 
Should  seek  and  sigh  around  thy  early  tomb, 

Moist  with  the  tears  of  those  who  lov'd  thee  best, 
Scenied  with  sighs  of  love — there  grief  should  come, 
And  mem'ry  guard  thy  grave,  and  mourn  thy  hapless 
doom.  | 

It  may  not  be.     Too  feeble  if  Hie  hand, 

Too  weak  and  frail  the  harp,  the  lay  too  brief, 

To  speak  the  sorrows  of  a  mourning  land, 
Weeping  in  silence  for  her  youthful  chief. 
Yet  may  an  artless  tear  proclaim  more  grief 


13 

Than  mock  affection's  arts  can  ever  show  ; 

A  heartfelt  sigh  can  give  a  sad  relief, 
Which  all  the  sobs  of  counterfeited  wo, 
Trick'd  off  in  foreign  garb,  can  never  hope  to  know, 


A  MARINER'S  SONG. 

This  is  part  of  an  unfinished  story,  the  period  of  which 
referred  to  the  times  when  Mr.  ADAMS  was  President. 

THOUGH  now  we  are  sluggish  and  lazy  on  shore, 
Yet  soon  shall  we  be  where  the  wild  waters  roar  ; 
Where  the  wind  through  the  hoarse  rattling  cordage 

shall  rave, 
And  fling  the  white  foam  from  the  top  of  the  wave. 

Yes,  soon  o'er  the  waters  the  Essex  shall  sweep, 
And  bear  all  the  thunders  of  war  o'er  the  deep  ; 
While  the  hands  that  are  hard,  and  the  hearts  that 

are  brave, 
Shall  give  the  bold  frigate  the  top  of  the  wave. 


14 

And  though  some  one  among  us  may  never  return, 
His   comrades    shall    sorrow,    his  messmates   shall 

mourn  ; 

Though  his  body  may  sink  to  a  watery  grave, 
His  spirit  shall  rise  to  the  top  of  the  wave. 

Then  a  health  to  John  Adams  !  and  long  may  he  reign 

O'er  the  mountain,  the  valley,  the  shore,  and  the 
main; 

May  he  have  the  same  breeze,  which  to  WASHING 
TON  gave, 

In  his  cruise  o'er  the  waters,  the  top  of  the  wave. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning, 
Ting'd  with  the  rising  sun  ; 

And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 
And  mingled  into  one  : 

I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 

It  mov'd  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 


15 

I  saw  two  summer  currents, 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 
And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting  : 
Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green. 
While  dimpling  eddies  play'd  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream. 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease — 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

A    LADY'S   ALBUM, 

THE  wanton  boy  that  sports  in  May, 
Among  the  wild  flowers,  blooming,  gay, 
With  laughing  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 
The  brighest,  freshest,  fairest  seeks, 


16 

And  there,  delightedly,  he  lingers, 
To  pluck  them  with  his  rosy  fingers, 
While,  like  the  bee,  he  roves  among 
Their  sweets,  and  hums  his  little  song. 

He  weaves  a  garland  rich  and  rare, 
And  decorates  his  yellow  hair : 
The  rose,  and  pink,  and  violet, 
And  honeysuckle,  there  are  set ; 
The  darkest  cypress  in  the  glade 
Lends  to  the  wreath  its  solemn  shade, 
And  sadly  smiles,  when  lighted  up 
With  daisy,  and  with  butter-cup. 

Thus  fair  and  bright  each  flow'r  should  be, 
CulPd  from  the  field  of  Poesy  ; 
But  with  the  lightsome  and  the  gay, 
Be  mix'd  the  moralizing  lay 
Of  those,  who,  like  the  cypress  bough, 
A  thoughtful  shade  of  sorrow  throw 
On  transient  buds,  or  flowers  light, 
That  smile  at  morn,  and  fade  at  night. 


THE  SHAD  SPIRIT. 

There  is  a  superstition  in  many  places,  which  bears,  that 
Shad  are  conducted  from  the  gulf  of  Mexico  into  Connec 
ticut  river  by  a  kind  of  Yankee  bogle,  in  the  shape  of  a  bird, 
properly  called  the  SHAD  SPIRIT.  It  makes  its  appearance, 
annually,  about  a  week  before  the  Shad,  calls  the  fish,  and 
gives  warning  to  the  fishermen  to  mend  their  nets.  It  is  sup 
posed,  that  without  his  assistance,  the  nets  would  be  swept  to 
no  purpose,  and  the  fisherman  would  labour  in  vain. 

Now  drop  the  bolt,  and  securely  nail 

The  horse-shoe  over  the  door  ; 
'Tis  a  wise  precaution,  and  if  it  should  fail, 

It  never  faiPd  before. 

Know  ye  the  shepherd  that  gathers  his  flock, 
Where  the  gales  of  the  Equinox  blow, 

From  each  unknown  reef,  and  sunken  rock, 
In  the  gulf  of  Mexico  ; 

While  the  Monsoons  growl,  and  the  trade-winds  bark. 
And  the  watch-dogs  of  the  surge 
3 


18 

Pursue  through  the  wild  waves  the  ravenous  shark. 
That  prowls  around  their  charge  ? 

To  fair  Connecticut's  northernmost  source, 

O'er  sand-bars,  rapids,  and  falls, 
The  Shad  Spirit  holds  his  onward  course, 

With  the  flocks  which  his  whistle  calls. 

O  how  shall  he  know  where  he  went  before  ? 

Will  he  wander  around  for  ever  ? 
The  last  year's  shad-heads  shall  shine  on  the  shore, 

To  light  him  up  the  river. 

And  well  can  he  tell  the  very  time 

To  undertake  his  task — 
When  the  pork  barrel's  low,  he  sits  on  the  chine, 

And  drums  on  the  empty  cider  cask. 

The  wind  is  light,  and  the  wave  is  white, 
With  the  fleece  of  the  flock  that's  near  ; 

Like  the  breath  of  the  breeze,  he  comes  over  the 

seas, 
And  faithfully  leads  them  here. 


19 

And  now  he's  passed  the  bolted  door, 
Where  the  rusted  horse-shoe  clings  ; 

So  carry  the  nets  to  the  nearest  shore, 
And  take  what  the  Shad  Spirit  brings. 


THE  TREE  TOAD. 

I  AM  a  jolly  tree  toad,  upon  a  chestnut  tree  ; 

I  chirp,  because  I  know  that  the  night  was  made  for 

me; 
The  young  bat  flies  above  me,  the  glow-worm  shines 

below, 
And  the  owlet  sits  to  hear  me,  and  half  forgets  his 

wo. 

I'm  lighted  by  the  fire-fly,  in  circles  wheeling  round; 
The  katy-did  is  silent,  and  listens  to  the  sound  ; 
The  jack-o'-lantern   leads    the   wayworn   traveller 

astray, 
To  hear  the  tree  toad's  melody  until  the  break  of 

day. 


20 

The  harvest  moon  hangs  over  me,   and  smiles  upon 

the  streams  ; 
The  lights  dance  upward  from  the  north,  and  cheer 

me  with  their  beams  ; 
The   dew   of  heaven,  it  comes  to  me  as  sweet  as 

beauty's  tear ; 
The  stars  themselves  shoot  down  to  see  what  music 

we  have  here. 

The  winds  around  me  whisper  to  ev'ry  flower  that 
hlows, 

To  droop  their  heads,  call  in  their  sweets,  and  every 
leaf  to  close  ; 

The  whipperwill  sings  to  his  mate  the  mellow  me 
lody  :  * 

"  Oh !  hark,  and  hear  the  notes  that  flow  from  yon 
der  chestnut  tree." 

Ye  katy-dids   and  whipperwills,  come  listen  to  me 

now  ; 

I  am  a  jolly  tree  toad  upon  a  chestnut  hough ; 
I  chirp  because  I  know  that  the  night  was  made  for 

me — 
And  I  close  my  proposition  with  a  Q.  E.  D. 


SPRING. 

TO  MISS 


OTHER  poets  may  muse  on  thy  beauties,  and  sing 
Of  thy  birds,  and  thy  flowers,  and  thy   perfumes, 

sweet  Spring  ! 

They  may  wander  enraptur'd  by  hills  and  by  moun 
tains, 

Or  pensively  pore  by  "thy  fresh  gushing  fountains  ; 
Or  sleep  in  the  moonlight  by  favourite  streams, 
Inspired  by  the  whispering  sylphs  in  their  dreams, 
And  awake   from  their  slumbers  to  hail  the  bright 

sun, 
When  shining  in  dew  the  fresh  morning  comes  on. 

But   I've  wet  shoes  and   stockings,  a  cold   in  my 

throat, 

The  head-ache,  and  tooth-ache,  and  quinsy  to  boot ; 
No  dew  from  the  cups  of  the  flow'rets  I  sip, — 
'Tis  nothin    but  boneset  that  moistens  my  lip  ; 


22 

Not  a  cress  from  the  spring  or  the  brook  can  he  had: 
At  morn,  noon,  and  night,  I  get  nothing  but  shad  ; 
My  whispering  sylph  is  a  broad-shoulder' d  lass, 
And  my  bright  sun — a  warming  pan  made  out  of 
brass ! 

Then  be  thou  my  genius ;  for  what  can  I  do, 
When  I  cannot  see  nature,  but  copy  from  you  ? 
If  Spring  be  the  season  of  beauty  and  youth, 
Of  health  and  of  loveliness,  kindness  and  truth  ; 
Of  all  that's  inspiring,  and  all  that  is  bright, 
And  all  that  is  what  we  call  just  about  right— 
Why  need  I  expose  my  sick  muse  to  the  weather, 
When  by  going  to  you  she  would  find  all  together  ? 


ON    THE 

BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON, 

Written  for  February  22d,  1822. 
"Hie  cinis — ubique  fama." 


BEHOLD  the  moss'd  corner-stone  dropp'd  from  the 

wall, 
And  gaze  on  its  date,  but  remember  its  fall, 

And  hope  that  some  hand  may  replace  it ; 
Think  not  of  its  pride  when  with  pomp  it  was  laid, 
But  weep  for  the  ruin  its  absence  has  made, 

And  the  lapse  of  the  years  that  efface  it. 

Mourn  WASHINGTON'S  death,   when  ye  think  of  his 

birth, 

And  far  from  your  thoughts  be  the  lightness  of  mirth, 
And  far  from  your  cheek  be  its  smile. 


24 

To-day  he  was  born — 'twas  a  loan — not  a  gift  : 
The  dust  of  his  body  is  all  that  is  left, 
To  hallow  his  funeral  pile. 

Flow  gently,  Potomac  !  thou  washest  away 

The  sands  where  he  trod,  and  the  turf  where  he  lay. 

When  youth  brush'd  his  cheek  with  her  wing ; 
Breathe  softly,  ye  wild  winds,  that  circle  around 
That  dearest,  and  purest,  and  holiest  ground, 

Ever  press'd  by  the  footprints  of  Spring. 

Each  breeze  be  a  sigh,  and  each  dewdrop  a  tear, 
Each  wave  be  a  whispering  monitor  near, 

To  remind  the  sad  shore  of  his  story  ; 
And  darker,  and  softer,  and  sadder  the  gloom 
Of  that  evergreen  mourner  that  bends  o'er  the  tomb, 

Where  WASHINGTON  sleeps  in  his  glory.  ^ 

Great  GOD  !   when  the  spirit  of  freedom  shall  fail. 
And  the  sons  of  the  pilgrims,  in  sorrow,  bewail 

Their  religion  and  liberty  gone  ; 
Oh !  send  back  a  form  that  shall  stand  as  he  stood, 
Unsubdu'dby  the  tempest,  unmov'd  by  the  flood; 

And  to  THEE  be  the  glory  alone. 


ON  Thursday,  the  21st  of  February,  1823,  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  as  the  mail  stage  from  Hartford  to  New-Haven,  with 
three  passengers,  was  crossing  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  near  Durham,  the  bridge  was  carried  away  by  theice, 
and  the  stage  was  precipitated  down  a  chasm  of  twenty  feet. 
Two  of  the  passengers  were  drowned  :  one  of  them  had  been 
long  from  home,  and  was  on  his  way  to  see  his  friends.  This 
occurrence  is  mentioned  as  explanatory  of  the  following  lines. 

"  How  slow  we  drive !  but  yet  the  hour  will  come, 
When  friends  shall  greet  me  with  affection's  kiss  5 

When,  seated  at  my  boyhood's  happy  home, 
I  shall  enjoy  a  mild,  contented  bliss, 
Not  often  met  with  in  a  world  like  this ! 

Then  I  shall  see  that  brother,  youngest  born, 
I  used  to  play  with  in  my  sportiveness  ; 

And,  from  a  mother's  holiest  look,  shall  learn 

A  parent's  thanks  to  God,  for  a  lov'd  son's  return. 

"  And  there  is  one,  who,  with  a  downcast  eye, 
Will  be  the  last  to  welcome  me  ;  but  yet 

My  memory  tells  me  of  a  parting  sigh, 
And  of  a  lid  with  tears  of  sorrow  wet. 


26 

And  how  she  bade  me  never  to  forget 
A  friend — and  blush'd.     Oh !  I  shall  see  again 

The  same  kind  look  I  saw,  when  last  we  met. 
And  parted.     Tell  me  then  that  life  is  vain — 
That  joy,  if  met  with  once,  is  seldom  met  again." 


*       *       *     See  ye  not  the  falling,  fallen  mass .? 

Hark !   hear  ye  not  the  drowning  swimmer's  cry  ? 
Look  on  the  ruins  of  the  desperate  pass ! 

Gaze  at  the  hurried  ice  that  rushes  by. 

Bearing  a  freight  of  wo  and  agony, 
To  that  last  haven  where  we  all  must  go. — 

Resistless  as  the  stormy  clouds  that  fly 
Above  our  reach,  is  that  dark  stream  below ! — 
May  peace  be  in  its  ebb— there's  ruin  in  its  flow. 


ON  A  LATE  LOSS.* 


"  He  shall  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
"  Unwept." 


THE  breath  of  air  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string, 

Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm  ; 
The  drops  of  dew  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring. 

Rise  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form  ; 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash  ; 
And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 
That  wave  and  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 

Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  unite. 

So  science  whisper'd  in  thy  charmed  ear, 
And  radiant  learning  beckon'd  thee  away. 

*  The  loss  of  Professor  FISHER,  in  the  Albion. 


28 

The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear 

Beam  of  thy  morning  promis'd  a  bright  day. 
And  they  have  wreck'd  thee! — But  there  is  a  shore 

Where  storms  are  hush'd,   where  tempests  never 

rage  ; 
Where  angry  skies  and  blackening  seas,  no  more 

With  gusty  strength  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 
By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod — 

Thy  home  is  Heaven,  and  thy  friend  is  God. 


The  Rev.  LEVI  PARSONS,  who  was  associated  with  the 
Rev.  Pliny  FisU,  on  the  Palestine  mission,  died  at  Alexan 
dria,  Feb.  18th,  1822. 

GREEN  as  Machpelah's  honour'd  field, 

Where  Jacob  and  where  Leah  lie, 
Where  Sharon's  shrubs  their  roses  yield, 

And  Carmel's  branches  wave  on  high  ; 
So  honour'd,  so  adorn'd,  so  green, 
Young  martyr !  shall  thy  grave  be  seen. 

Oh !  how  unlike  the  bloody  bed, 

Where  pride  and  passion  seek  to  lie  .; 


29 

Where  faith  is  not,  where  hope  can  shed 

No  tear  of  holy  sympathy. 
There  withering  thoughts  shall  drop  around, 
In  dampness  on  the  lonely  mound. 


On  Jordan's  weeping  willow  trees, 

Another  holy  harp  is  hung : 
It  murmurs  in  as  soft  a  hreeze, 

As  e'er  from  Gilead's  balm  was  flung, 
When  Judah's  tears,  in  Babel's  stream 
Dropp'd,  and  when  "  Zion  was  their  theme.5' 

So  may  the  harp  of  Gabriel  sound 
In  the  high  heaven,  to  welcome  thee. 

When,  rising  from  the  holy  ground 
Of  Nazareth  and  Galilee, 

The  saints  of  God  shall  take  their  flight. 

In  rapture,  to  the  realms  of  light. 


30 


THE  project  for  colonizing  in  Africa  the  "  free  people  of 
colour,"  was  the  subject  of  these  lines. 


"  Magna  componere  parvis." 

ALL  sights  are  fair  to  the  recover'd  blind- 
All  sounds  are  music  to  the  deaf  restor'd— 

The  lame,  made  whole,  leaps  like  the  sporting  hind  ; 
And  the  sad  bow'd  down  sinner,  with  his  load 

Of  shame  and  sorrow,  when  he  cuts  the  cord, 
And  drops  the  pack  it  hound,  is  free  again 

In  the  light  yoke  and  burden  of  his  Lord. 
Thus,  with  the  birthright  of  his  fellow  man, 
Sees,  hears  and  feels  at  once  the  righted  African, 

'Tis  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life  ; 

From  the    grave's    cerements    to    the  robes  of 

Heaven  •, 
From  sin's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife. 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ! 

When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 


31 


Arid  mortals  put  on  immortality  ; 

When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief  away  are  driven, 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turn'd  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "  Rejoice — thy  soul  is 
free!" 


TO   THE 

MARQUIS  LA  FAYETTE, 

The  only  surviving  General  of  the  Revolution 
[Written,  and  printed  in  the  Mirror,  Aug.  1322.] 

WE'LL  search  the  earth,  and  search  the  sea. 

To  cull  a  gallant  wreath  for  thee  ; 

And  every  field  for  freedom  fought, 

And  every  mountain  height,  where  aught 

Of  liberty  can  yet  be  found, 

Shall  be  our  blooming  harvest  ground. 

Laurels  in  garlands  hang  upon 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon — 


32 

On  Bannockburn  the  thistle  grows — 
On  Runny  Mead  the  wild  rose  blows  : 
And  on  the  banks  of  Boyne,  its  leaves 
Green  Erin's  shamrock  wildly  weaves. 
In  France,  in  sunny  France,  we'll  get 
The  fleur-de-lys  and  mignonette, 
From  every  consecrated  spot 
Where  lies  a  martyr' d  Hugonot ; 
And  cull,  even  here,  from  many  a  field. 

And  many  a  rocky  height, 
Bays  that  our  vales  and  mountains  yield. 

Where  men  have  met,  to  fight 
For  law,  and  liberty  and  life, 
And  died  in  freedom's  holy  strife. 

Below  Atlantic  seas — below 

The  waves  of  Erie  and  Champlain, 
The  sea  grass  and  the  corals  grow 

In  rostral  trophies  round  the  slain  : 
And  we  can  add,  to  form  thy  crown. 
Some  branches  worthy  thy  renown ! 
Long  may  the  chaplet  flourish  bright, 
And  borrow  from  the  Heavens  its  light. 
As  with  a  cloud,  that  circles  round 

A  star,  when  other  stars  have  set. 


33 

With  glory  shall  thy  brow  be  bound  ; 
With  glory  shall  thy  head  be  crown'd  : 
With  glory,  starlike,  cinctur'd  yet : 
For  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
Shall  yield  a  glorious  wreath  to  thee. 


MANIAC'S  SONG. 

I  CAN  but  smile  when  others  weep, 
I  can  but  weep  when  others  smile : 

Oh !  let  me  in  this  bosom  keep 
The  secret  of  my  heart  awhile. 

My  form  was  fair,  my  step  was  light, 
As  ever  tripped  the  dance  along  ; 

My  cheek  was  smooth,  my  eye  was  bright — 
But  my  thought  was  wild,  and  my  heart  was 
young. 

And  he  I  lov'd  would  laugh  with  glee, 
And  every  heart  but  mine  was  glad  ; 

lie  had  a  smile  for  all  but  me  ; 
Oh  !  he  was  gay,  and  I  was  sad ! 
4* 


34 

Now  I  have  lost  my  blooming  health, 
And  joy  and  hope  no  more  abide  ; 

And  wildering  fancies  come  by  stealth. 
Like  moonlight  on  a  shifting  tide. 

They  say  he  wept,  when  he  was  told 
That  I  was  sad  and  sorrowful — 

That  on  my  wrist  the  chain  was  cold — 
That  at  my  heart  the  blood  was  dull. 

They  fear  I'm  craz'd — they  need  not  fear. 

For  smiles  are  false,  and  tears  are  true  : 
I  better  love  to  see  a  tear, 

Than  all  the  smiles  I  ever  knew. 


TO  THE  MEMORY 


OF 


CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN 

WE  seek  not  mossy  bank,  or  whispering  stream, 
Or  pensive  shade,  in  twilight  softness  deck'd. 

Or  dewy  canopy  of  flowers,  or  beam 

Of  autumn's  sun,  by  various  foliage  check'd. 

Our  sweetest  river,  and  our  loveliest  glen, 
Our  softest  waterfalls,  just  heard  afar, 

Our  sunniest  slope,  or  greenest  hillock,  when 
It  takes  its  last  look  at  the  evening  star, 

May  suit  some  softer  soul.     But  thou  wert  fit 
To  tread  our  mighty  mountains,  and  to  mark, 

In  untrack'd  woods,  the  eagle's  pinions  flit 
O'er  roaring  cataracts  and  chasms  dark  : 

To  talk  and  walk  with  Nature,  in  her  wild 
Attire,  her  boldest  form,  her  sternest  mood  ; 


36 

To  be  her  own  enthusiastic  child, 
And  seek  her  in  her  awful  solitude. 

There,  when  through  stormy  clouds,  the  struggling 
moon 

On  some  wolf-haunted  rock  shone  cold  and  clear. 
Thou  couldst  commune,  inspir'd  by  her  alone, 

With  all  her  works  of  wonder  and  of  fear. 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  who  thy  walks  among, 
Shall  rove,  and  meditate,  and  muse  on  thee  ? 

No  whining  rhymster  with  his  schoolboy  song, 
May  wake  thee  with  his  muling  minstrelsy. 

Some  western  muse,  if  western  muse  there  be, 
When  the  rough  wind  in  clouds  has  swath' d  he 
form, 

Shall  boldly  wind  her  wintry  form  for  thee5 
And  tune  her  gusty  music  to  the  storm. 

The  cavern's  echoes,  and  the  forest's  voice, 
Shall  chime  in  concord  to  the  waking  tone  ; 

And  winds  and  waters,  with  perpetual  noise, 
For  thee  shall  make  their  melancholy  moan. 


LORD  EXMOUTH'S  VICTORY 

AT  ALGIERS.— 1816. 

Arma  virumque  cano. 

THE  sun  look'd  bright  upon  the  morning  tide  : 

Light  play'd  the  breeze  along  the  whispering  shore. 
And  the  blue  billow  arch'd  its  head  of  pride, 

As  'gainst  the  rock  its  frothy  front  it  bore ; 

The  clear  bright  dew  fled  hastily  before 
The  morning's  sun,  and  glitter'd  in  his  rays  ; 

Aloft  the  early  lark  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  cheerful  nature  glorified  the  ways 
Of  God,  and  mutely  sang  her  joyous  notes  of  praise. 

The  freshening  breeze,  the  sporting  wave. 
Their  own  impartial  greeting  gave 

To  Christian  and  to  Turk ; 
But  both  prepared  to  break  the  charm 
Of  peace,  with  war's  confused  alarm — 
And  ready  each,  for  combat  warm, 

Commenc'd  the  bloody  work. 


38 

For  England's  might  was  on  the  seas, 
With  red  cross  flapping  in  the  breeze, 

And  streamer  floating  light ; 
While  the  pale  crescent,  soon  to  set, 
Waved  high  on  tower  and  minaret, 
And  all  the  pride  of  Mahomet 

Stood  ready  for  the  fight. 

Then  swell'd  the  noise  of  battle  high  ; 
The  warrior's  shout,  the  coward's  cry. 

Rung  round  the  spacious  bay. 
Fierce  was  the  strife,  and  ne'er  before 
Had  old  Numidia's  rocky  shore 
Been  deafen'd  with  such  hideous  roar. 

As  on  that  bloody  day. 

It  seem'd  as  if  that  earth-born  brood, 
Which,  poets  say,  once  warr'd  on  God. 

Had  risen  from  the  sea ; — 
As  if  again  they  boldly  strove 
To  seize  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 
And  o'er  Olympian  powers  to  prove 

Their  own  supremacy. 


39 

What  though  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest? 
What  though  the  clouds  of  smoke  invest 

The  capes  of  Matisou  ? — 
Still  by  the  flash  each  sees  his  foe, 
And,  dealing  round  him  death  and  wo, 
With  shot  for  shot,  and  blow  for  blow. 

Fights— to  his  country  true. 

Each  twinkling  star  look'd  down  to  see 
The  pomp  of  England's  chivalry, 

The  pride  of  Britain's  crown  ! 
While  ancient  ^Ltna  rais'd  his  head. 
Disgorging  from  his  unknown  bed 
A  fire,  that  round  each  hero  shed 

A  halo  of  renown. 

The  dying  sailor  cheer'd  his  crew, 
While  thick  around  the  death-shot  flew : 

And  glad  was  he  to  see 
Old  England's  flag  still  streaming  high.— 
Her  cannon  speaking  to  the  sky, 
And  telling  all  the  pow'rs  on  high. 

Of  Exmouth's  victory ! 


40 

The  crescent  wanes — the  Turkish  might 
Is  vanquish' d  in  the  bloody  fight, 

The  Pirate's  race  is  run ; — 
Thy  shouts  are  hush'd,  and  all  is  still 
On  tow'r,  and  battlement,  and  hill, 
No  loud  command — no  answer  shrill — 

Algiers  !  thy  day  is  done  ! 

The  slumb'ring  tempest  swell'd  its  breath, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  field  of  death, 

And  o'er  the  waves  of  gore, 
Above  the  martial  trumpet's  tone, 
Above  the  wounded  soldier's  moan. 
Above  the  dying  sailor's  groan, 

Rais'd  its  terrific  roar. 

Speed  swift,  ye  gales,  and  bear  along 
This  burden  for  the  poet's  song, 

O'er  continent  and  sea  : 
Tell  to  the  world  that  Britain's  hand 
Chastis'd  the  misbelieving  band. 
And  overcame  the  Paynim  land 

In  glorious  victory. 


WRITTEN 

FOR  A 

LADY'S  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK. 

AH  !  who  can  imagine  what  plague  and  what  bothers 
He  feels,  who  sits  down  to  write  verses  for  others ! 
His  pen  must  be  mended,  his  inkstand  be  ready, 
His  paper  laid  square,  and  his  intellects  steady  ; 
And  then  for  a  subject — No,  that's  not  the  way, 
For  genuine  poets  don't  care  what  they  say, 
But  how  they  shall  say  it.    So  now  for  a  measure. 
That's  suited  alike  to  your  taste  and  my  leisure. 
For  instance,  if  you  were  a  matron  of  eighty, 
The  verse  should  be  dignified,  solemn,  and  weighty ; 
And  luckless  the  scribbler  who  had  not  the  tact, 
To  make  every  line  a  sheer  matter  of  fact. 
Or  if  you  were  a  stiff,  worn-out  spinster,  too  gouty 
To  make  a  good  sylph,  and  too  sour  for  a  beauty  ; 
Too  old  for  a  flirt,  and  too  young  to  confess  it ; 
To  good  to  complain  of  't,  and  too  bad  to  bless  it  : 

5 


42 

The  muse  should  turnout  some  unblameable  sonnet. 
And  mutter  blank  verse  in  her  comments  upon  it : 
Demure  in  her  walk,  should  look  down  to  her  shoe. 
And  pick  the  dry  pathway,  for  fear  of  the  dew. 

But  for  you,  she  shall  trip  it,  wherever  she  goes, 
As  light  and  fantastic  as  L' Allegro's  toes  ; 
Wade,  swim,  fly,  or  scamper,  full-fledg'd  and  webb- 

footed, 

Or  on  Pegasus  mounted,  well  spurr'd  and  well  booted. 
With  martingale  fanciful,  crupper  poetic, 
Saddle  cloth  airy,  and  whip  energetic, 
Girths  woven  of  rainbows,  and  hard-twisted  flax. 
And  horse  shoes  as  bright  as  the  edge  of  an  axe ; 
How  blithe  should  she  amble  and  prance  on  the  road. 
With  a  pillion  behind  for . 

By  Helicon's  waters  she'll  take  her  sweet  course, 
And  indent  the  green  turf  with  the  hoofs  of  her 

horse ; 

Up  blooming  Parnassus  bound  higher  and  higher, 
While  the  gate-keeping  Graces  no  toll  shall  require ; 
And  the  other  eight  Muses  shall  dance  in  cotillion, 
And  sing  round  the  sweep  of  Apollo's  pavillion — 


43 


While  Phoebus  himself,  standing  godlike  on  dry  land, 
Shall  shine  on  the  belle  of  the  state  of  R**** 


TO  MY  FRIEND  G . 

THE    LOST    PLEIAD.* 

OH  !  how  calm  and  how  beautiful — look  at  the  night ! 
The  planets  are  wheeling  in  pathways  of  light  ; 
And  the  lover,  or  poet,  with  heart,  or  with  eye, 
Sends  his  gaze  with  a  tear,  or  his  soul  with  a  sigh. 

But  from  Fesole's  summit  the  Tuscan  look'd  forth, 
To  eastward  and  westward,  to  south  and  to  north  ; 
Neither  planet  nor  star  could  his  vision  delight, 
'Till  his  own  bright  Pleiades  should  rise  to  his  sight. 

They  rose,  and  he  numbered  their  glistering  train — 
They  shone  bright  as  he  counted  them  over  again ; 
But  the  star  of  his  love,  the  bright  gem  of  the  cluster, 
Arose  not  to  lend  the  Pleiades  its  lustre. 


*  "Tis  said  by  the  ancient  poets,   that  there  used  to  be  one  more 
star  in  the  constellation  of  the  Pleiades. 


44 

And  thus,  when  the  splendour  of  beauty  has  blaz'd, 
On  light  and  on  loveliness,  how  have  we  gaz'd  ! 
And  how  sad  have  we  turn'd  from  the  sight,   when 

we  found 
That  the  fairest  and  sweetest  was  "  not  on  the  ground." 


THE  ALLIGATOR. 

THE  U.  S.  schooner  Alligator  was  wrecked  on  her  return 
1'rom  the  West  India  station,  after  the  murder,  by  the  pirates, 
of  her  commander,  Capt.  ALLYN. 

THAT  steed  has  lost  his  rider  !  I  have  seen 
His  snuffing  nostril,  and  his  pawing  hoof; 
His  eyeball  lighting  to  the  cannon's  blaze, 
His  sharp  ear  pointed,  and  each  ready  nerve. 
Obedient  to  a  whisper.     His  white  mane 
Curling  with  eagerness,  as  if  it  bore, 
To  squadron'd  foes,  the  sign  of  victory, 
Where'er  his  bounding  speed  could  carry  it. 
But  now,  with  languid  step,  he  creeps  along. 
Falters,  and  groans,  and  dies. 


45 

And  I  have  seen 

Yon  foundering  vessel,  when  with  crowded  sail. 
With  smoking  bulwarks,  and  with  blazing  sides. 
Sporting  away  the  foam  before  her  prow, 
And  heaving  down  her  side  to  the  brave  chase, 
.She  seem'd  to  share  the  glories  of  the  bold ! 
But  now,  with  flagging  canvass,  lazily 
She  moves  ;  and  stumbling  on  the  rock,  she  sinks, 
As  broken  hearted  as  that  faithful  steed, 
That  lost  his  rider,  and  laid  down,  and  died. 


THE  SEA  GULL.* 

''  Ibis  etredibis  nunquam  peribis  in  bello." — Oracle. 

I  SEEK  not  the  grove  where  the  wood-robins  whistle, 
Where  the  light  sparrows  sport,  and  the  linnets 
pair; 

[  seek  not  the  bower  where  the  ring-doves  nestle. 
For  none  but  the  maid  and  her  lover  are  there. 

*  Com.  PORTER'S  vessel, 
5* 


46 

On  the  clefts  of  the  wave-wash' d  rock  I  sit, 
When  the  ocean  is  roaring  and  raving  nigh  : 

On  the  howling  tempest  I  scream  and  flit, 
With  the  storm  in  my  wing,  and  the  gale  in  my  eye, 

And  when  the  bold  sailor  climbs  the  mast. 

And  sets  his  canvass  gallantly, 
Laughing  at  all  his  perils  past, 

And  seeking  more  on  the  mighty  sea  ; 

t'll  flit  to  his  vessel,  and  perch  on  the  truck, 

Or  sing  in  the  hardy  pilot's  ear  ; 
That  her  deck  shall  be  like  my  wave-wash'd  rock. 

And  the  top  like  my  nest  when  the  storm  is  near. 

Her  cordage,  the  branches  that  I  will  grace  ; 

Her  rigging,  the  grove  where  I  will  whistle  : 
Her  wind-swung  hammock,  my  pairing  place. 

Where  I  by  the  seaboy's  side  will  nestle. 

And  when  the  fight,  like  the  storm,  comes  on, 
'Mid  the  warrior's  shout  and  the  battle's  noise, 

I'll  cheer  him  by  the  deadly  gun, 
'Till  he  loves  the  music  of  its  voice. 


47 


And  if  death's  dark  mist  shall  his  eye  bedim. 

And  they  plunge  him  beneath  the  fathomless  wave, 

A  wild  note  shall  sing  his  requiem. 

And  a  white  wing  flap  o'er  his  early  grave. 


THE    CAPTAIN. 

A  FRAGMENT * 

SOLEMN  he  pac'd  upon  that  schooner's  deck, 
And  mutter'd  of  his  hardships  :— "  I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  will  of  Mississippi's  tide 
Has  dash'd  me  on  the  sawyer  ;— 1  have  sail'd 
In  the  thick  night,  along  the  wave-wash'd  edge 
Of  ice,  in  acres,  by  the  pitiless  coast 
Of  Labrador ;  and  I  have  scrap'd  my  keel 
O'er  coral  rocks  in  Madagascar  seas— 

•  The  Bridgeport  paper  of  March,  1823,  said:  "Arrived, 
schooner  Fame,  from  Charleston,  via  New-London.  While  at  an 
chor  in  that  harbour,  during  the  rain  storm  on  Thursday  evening 
last,  the  Fame  was  run  foul  of  by  the  wreck  of  the  Methodist 
Meeting-House  from  Norwich,  which  was  carried  away  hi  the  late 
freshet." 


48 

And  often  in  my  cold  and  midnight  watch, 
Have  heard  the  warning  voice  of  the  lee  shore 
Speaking  in  breakers  !  Ay,  and  I  have  seen 
The  whale  and  sword-fish  fight  beneath  my  bow* 
And  when  they  made  the  deep  boil  like  a  pot. 
Have  swung  into  its  vortex  ;  and  I  know 
To  cord  my  vessel  with  a  sailor's  skill, 
And  brave  such  dangers  with  a  sailor's  heart  ; 
— But  never  yet  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Or  where  the  river  mixes  with  the  main. 
Or  in  the  chafing  anchorage  of  the  bay, 
In  all  my  rough  experience  of  harm. 
Met  I — a  Methodist  meeting-house ! 


Cat-head,  or  beam,  or  davit  has  it  none, 

Starboard  nor  larboard,  gunwale,  stem  nor  stern ! 

It  comes  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape," 

I  cannot  even  speak  it !     Up  jib,  Josey, 

And  make  for  Bridgeport!     There,  where  Stratford 

Point, 

Long  Beach,  Fairweather  Island,  and  the  buov. 
Are  safe  from  such  encounters,  we'll  protest ! 
And  Yankee  legends  long  shall  tell  the  tale. 


49 


That  once  a  Charleston  schooner  was  beset. 
Riding  at  anchor,  by  a  Meeting-House. 


THE  following  lines  refer  to  the  good  wishes  which  Eliza 
beth,  in  Mr.  COOPER'S  novel  of  "The  Pioneers,"  seems  to 
have  manifested,  in  the  last  chapter,  for  the  welfare  of  "Lea 
ther  Stocking,"  when  he  signified,  at  the  grave  of  the  Indian, 
his  determination  to  quit  the  settlements  of  men  for  the  un 
explored  forests  of  the  west  ;  and  when,  whistling  to  his  dogs, 
with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  pack  on  his  back,  he 
left  the  village  of  Templeton. 

FAR  away  from  the  hill  side,  the  lake  and  the  hamlet, 

The  rock,  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so  gay ; 

From   the  footpath  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the 

streamlet  ; 
From  his  hut,   and  the  grave   of  his  friend,   far 

away — 
He   is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  men  never  ven- 

tur'd, 
Where  the  glooms  of  the  wild-tangled  forest  are  cen- 

ter'd, 


50 

Where  no  beam  of  the   sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has 

enter'd, 
No  bloodhound  has  rous'd  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

He  has  left  the  green  alley  for  paths,  where  the  bison 

Roams  through  the  prairies,  or  leaps  o'er  the  flood ; 

Where  the  snake  in  the  swamp  sucks  its  deadliest 

poison, 
And  the  cat  of  the  mountains  keeps  watch  for  its 

food, 

But  the  leaf  shall  be  greener,  the  sky  shall  be  purer, 
The  eye  shall  be  clearer,  the  rifle  be  surer, 
And  stronger  the  arm  of  the  fearless  endurer, 

That  trusts  nought  but  Heaven  in  his  way  through 
the  wood. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer  ; 

Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile  ; 
Far  from  the  cruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer ; 

Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 
And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors,  assails 

him, 

And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him, 
He'll  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him, 

And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 


51 

And  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lustre ; 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak  leaves  be  spread  ; 
The  sweet  briar  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape 
shall  cluster  ; 

And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather; 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather  ; 
The  wolves,  with  his  wild  dogs,  shall  lie  there  toge 
ther, 

And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 


EXTRACTS 

FROM  VERSES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  NEW- YEAR.   1823. 

WHEN  streams  of  light,  in  golden  showers, 

First  fell  on  long  lost  Eden's  bowers, 

And  music,  from  the  shouting  skies, 

Wander'd  to  Eve's  own  Paradise, 

She  tun'd  her  eloquent  thoughts  to  song. 

And  hymn'd  her  gratitude  among 

The  waving  groves,  by  goodness  planted. 

The  holy  walks  by  blessings  haunted : 


52 

And  when  of  bower  and  grove  bereaved. 
Since  joy  was  gone,  in  song  she  grieved. 
And  taught  her  scattering  sons  the  art. 
In  mirth  or  wo,  to  touch  the  heart. 
Bear  witness  Jubal's  ringing  wire, 
And  untaught  David's  holier  lyre  ; 
Let  Judah's  timbrel  o'er  the  waters, 
Sound  to  the  song  of  Israel's  daughters 
Let  prophecy  the  strain  prolong. 
Prompting  the  watching  shepherd's  song. 
And  pressing  to  her  eager  lips, 
The  trump  of  the  Apocalypse. 
Bear  witness  pagan  Homer's  strain, 
That  to  each  valley,  hill,  and  plain. 
Of  classic  Greece — to  all  the  isles 
That  dimple  in  her  climate's  smiles— 
To  all  the  streams  that  rush  or  flow 
To  the  rough  Archipelago— 
To  wood  and  rock,  to  brook  and  river. 
Gave  names  will  live  in  song  for  ever. 

The  notes  were  rude  that  Druids  sung 
Their  venerable  woods  among  j 
But  later  bards,  enwrapt,  could  pore 
At  noon  upon  their  pastoral  lore, 


53 

And  love  the  oak-crown'd  shade,  that  yielded 

A  blessing,  on  the  spot  it  shielded. 

It  shed  a  solemn  calm  around 

Their  steps,  who  trod  the  Muse's  ground  ; 

And  wav'd  o'er  Shakspeare's  summer  dreams. 

By  Avon's  fancy-haunted  streams. 

Then  Genius  stamp'd  her  footprints  free, 

Along  the  walks  of  Poetry  ; 

And  cast  a  spell  upon  the  spot, 

To  save  it  from  the  common  lot. 

'Tvvas  like  the  oily  gloss  that's  seen 

Upon  the  shining  evergreen, 

When  desolate  in  wintry  air, 

The  trees  and  shrubs  around  are  bare. 

And  when  a  New- Year's  sun  at  last 
Lights  back  our  thoughts  upon  the  past ; 
When  recollection  brings  each  loss 
Our  sad'ning  memories  across  ; 
When  Piety  and  Science  mourn 
PARSONS  and  FISHER  from  them  torn — 
Just  as  yon  yellow  plague  has  fled — 
While  mindful  mourners  wail  the  dead, 
6 


54 

The  great,  the  good,  the  fair,  the  brave, 
Seiz'd  in  the  cold  grasp  of  the  grave  ; 
When  Murder's  hand  has  died  the  flood 
With  a  young  gallant  hero's  blood  ; 
When  cheeks  are  pale,  and  hearts  distrest 
Is  this  a  time  for  idle  jest  ? 

The  waves  shall  moan,  the  winds  shall  wail, 
Around  thy  rugged  coast,  Kinsale, 
For  one  who  could  mete  out  the  seas, 
And  turn  to  music  every  breeze — 
Track  the  directing  star  of  night, 
And  point  the  varying  needle  right. 

Fair  Palestine !  is  there  no  sound 
That  murmurs  holy  peace  around 
His  distant  grave,  whose  ardent  soul 
Fainted  not  till  it  reach'd  thy  goal, 
And  bless'd  the  rugged  path,  that  led 
His  steps  where  his  Redeemer  bled  ? 
We  may  not  breathe  what  angels  sing — 
We  may  not  wake  a  seraph's  string  ; 
Nor  brush,  with  mortal  steps,  the  dew 
That  heavenly  eyes  have  shed  on  you. 


55 

And  who  shall  tell  to  listening  Glory, 
Bending  in  grief  her  plumed  head, 
While  war-drops  from  her  brow  are  shed, 
And  her  beating  heart  and  pulses  numb, 
Throb  like  the  tuck  of  a  muffled  drum. 

Her  favourite  ALLEN'S  story  ? 
Oh !  other  harps  shall  sing  of  him, 
And  other  eyes  with  tears  be  dim  ; 
And  gallant  hopes  that  banish  fears, 
And  hands  and  hearts,  as  well  as  tears, 
Shall  yet,  before  all  eyes  are  dry, 
Do  justice  to  his  memory, 
And  hew  or  light,  with  sword  or  flame. 
A  pile  of  vengeance  to  his  name. 

Oh !  for  those  circumscribing  seas, 
That  hemm'd  thy  foes,  Themistocles  ! 
When  Xerxes  saw  his  vanquish'd  fleet. 
And  routed  arm/  at  his  feet — 
And  scowl'd  o'er  Salamis,  to  see 
His  foes'  triumphant  victory  ! 
Oh  !  for  that  more  than  mortal  stand. 
Where,  marshalling  his  gallant  band, 
Leonidas,  at  freedom's  post, 
Gave  battle  to  a  tyrant's  host  : 


56 


Then  Greece  might  struggle,  not  in  vain. 
And  breathe  in  liberty  again. 


THE  NEWPORT  TOWER. 

WHEN  and  for  what  purpose  this  was  built,  seems  to  be 
matter  of  dispute.  The  New- York  Statesman  associates  it ' 
with  great  antiquity — the  Commercial  Advertiser  gives  it  a 
military  character  ;  and  the  Rhode-Island  American,  with  a 
view,  perhaps,  to  save  it  from  doggerel  rhymes  and  sickish 
paragraphs,  says  it  is  nothing  but  an  old  windmill — if  such 
was  the  plan,  however,  it  has  not  succeeded. 

THERE  is  a  rude  old  monument, 
Half  masonry,  half  ruin,  bent 
With  sagging  weight,  as  if  it  meant 

To  warn  one  of  mischance  ; 
And  an  old  Indian  may  be  seen, 
Musing  in  sadness  on  the  scene, 
And  casting  on  it  many  a  keen, 

And  many  a  thoughtful  glance. 


57 

When  lightly  sweeps  the  evening  tide 
Old  Narraganset's  shore  beside, 
And  the  canoes  in  safety  ride 

Upon  the  lovely  bay — 
I've  seen  him  gaze  on  that  old  tower. 
At  evening's  calm  and  pensive  hour. 
And  when  the  night  began  to  lour, 

Scarce  tear  himself  away. 

Oft  at  its  foot  I've  seen  him  sit, 
His  willows  trim,  his  walnut  spit, 
And  there  his  seine  he  lov'd  to  knit, 

And  there  its  rope  to  haul ; 
'Tis  there  he  loves  to  be  alone, 
Gazing  at  every  crumbling  stone, 
And  making  many  an  anxious  moan. 

When  one  is  like  to  fall. 

But  once  he  turn'd  with  furious  look. 
While  high  his  clenched  hand  he  shook. 
And  from  his  brow  his  dark  eye  took 

A  red'ning  glow  of  madness  ; 
Yet  when  I  told  him  why  I  came, 
His  wild  and  bloodshot  eye  grew  tame, 
And  bitter  thoughts  pass'd  o'er  its  flame. 

That  chang'd  its  rage  to  sadness. 
6* 


58 

"  You  watch  my  step,  and  ask  me  why 
This  ruin  fills  my  straining  eye  ? 
Stranger,  there  is  a  prophecy 

Which  you  may  lightly  heed  : 
Stay  its  fulfilment,  if  you  can  ; 
I  heard  it  of  a  gray-hair'd  man, 
And  thus  the  threat'ning  story  ran, — 

A  boding  tale  indeed. 

;;  He  said,  that  when  this  massy  wall 
Down  to  its  very  hase  should  fall, 
And  not  one  stone  among  it  all 

Be  left  upon  another, 
Then  should  the  Indian  race  and  kind 
Disperse  like  the  returnless  wind, 
And  no  red  man  he  left  to  find 

One  he  could  call  a  brother. 

"  Now  yon  old  tower  is  falling  fast, 
Kindred  and  friends  away  are  pass'd  ; 
Oh  !  that  my  father's  soul  may  cast 

Upon  my  grave  its  shade, 
When  some  good  Christian  man  shall  plac< 
O'er  me,  the  last  of  all  my  race, 
The  last  old  stone  that  falls,  to  grace 

The  spot  where  I  am  laid." 


59 


Two  persons,  an  old  lady  and  a  girl,  were  killed  by  light 
ning,  in  the  Presbyterian  Meeting-House  in  Montville,  on 
Sunday  the  1st  of  June,  1823,  while  the  congregation  were 
singing.  The  following  is  not  an  exaggerated  account  of  the 
particulars. 

THE  Sabbath  morn  came  sweetly  on. 
The  sunbeams  mildly  shone  upon 

Each  rock,  and  tree,  and  flower  ; 
And  floating  on  the  southern  gale, 
The  clouds  seemM  gloriously  to  sail 
Along  the  Heavens,  as  if  to  hail 

That  calm  and  holy  hour. 

By  winding  path  and  alley  green, 

The  lightsome  and  the  young  were  seen 

To  join  the  gathering  throng  ; 
While  with  slow  step  and  solemn  look. 
The  elders  of  the  village  took 
Their  way,  and  as  with  age  they  shook. 

Went  reverently  along. 


60 

They  meet — the  "  sweet  psalm-tune"  they  raise 
They  join  their  grateful  hearts,  and  praise 

The  Maker  they  adore. 
They  met  in  holy  joy  ;  but  they 
Grieve  now,  who  saw  His  wrath  that  day, 
And  sadly  went  they  all  away, 

And  better  than  before. 

There  was  one  cloud,  that  overcast 
The  valley  and  the  hill,  nor  past 

Like  other  mists  away  : 
It  mov'd  not  round  the  circling  sweep 
Of  the  clear  sky,  but  dark  and  deep, 
Came  down  upon  them  sheer  and  steep. 

Where  they  had  met  to  pray. 

One  single  flash  !  it  rent  the  spire, 
And  pointed  downward  all  its  tire — 

What  could  its  power  withstay  ? 
There  was  an  aged  head  ;  and  there 
Was  beauty  in  its  youth,  and  fair 
Floated  the  young  locks  of  her  hair — 

It  call'd  them  both  away ! 


61 

The  Sabbath  eve  went  sweetly  down  ; 
Its  parting  sunbeams  mildly  shone 

Upon  each  rock  and  flower  ; 
And  gently  blew  the  southern  gale, 
— But  on  it  was  a  voice  of  wail, 
And  eyes  were  wet,  and  cheeks  were  pale. 

In  that  sad  evening  hour. 


TO  A  MISSIONARY, 

WHO  ATTENDED  THE  LATE  MEETING  OF  THE  BIBLE 
SOCIETY  AT  NEW-YORK. 

WHY  should  thy  heart  grow  faint,  thy  cheek  be  pale  ? 

Why  in  thine  eye  should  hang  the  frequent  tear, 
As  if  the  promise  of  your  God  would  fail, 

And  you  and  all  be  left  to  doubt  and  fear  ? 

Doubt  not,  for  holy  men  are  gathered  here ; 
Fear  not,  for  holy  thoughts  surround  the  place. 

And  angel  pinions  hover  round,  to  bear 
To  their  bright  homes  the  triumphs  of  his  grace, 
Whose  word  all  sin  and  shame,  all  sorrow  shall  efface. 


62 

Pure  as  a  cherub's  wishes  he  thy  thought, 

For  in  thine  ear  are  heavenly  whisperings  ; 
And  strong  thy  purposes,  as  though  they  sought 

To  do  the  errand  of  the  King  of  Kings. 

And  if  thy  heart  he  right,  his  mantle  flings 
Its  glorious  folds  of  charity  around 

Thine  earthly  feelings  ;  and  the  tuneful  strings 
Of  harps  in  heaven  shall  vibrate  to  the  sound 
Of  thy  soul's  prayer  from  earth,  if  thou  art  contrite 
found. 

Go  then,  and  prosper.     He  has  promised  all — 

All  that  instructed  zeal  can  need  or  ask  ; 
And  thou  art  summon'd  with  too  loud  a  call, 

To  hesitate  and  tremble  at  thy  task. 

Let  scoffers  in  their  glimpse  of  sunshine  bask, 
And  note  thy  pilgrimage  in  other  light : 

Theirs  is  a  look  that  peeps  but  through  a  mask  ; 
Thine  is  an  open  path,  too  plain,  too  bright 
For  those  who  dose  by  day,  and  see  but  in  the  night. 


THE  ROBBER.* 

THE  moon  hangs  lightly  on  yon  western  hill ; 
And  now  it  gives  a  parting  look,  like  one 
Who  sadly  leaves  the  guilty.     You  and  I 
Must  watch,  when  all  is  dark,  and  steal  along 
By  these  lone  trees,  and  wait  for  plunder.— Hush  ! 
I  hear  the  coming  of  some  luckless  wheel, 
Bearing  we  know  not  what— perhaps  the  wealth 
Torn  from  the  needy,  to  he  hoarded  up 
By  those  who  only  count  it ;  and  perhaps 
The  spendthrift's  losses,  or  the  gambler's  gains. 
The  thriving  merchant's  rich  remittances, 
Or  the  small  trifle  some  poor  serving  girl 
Sends  to  her  poorer  parents.     But  come  on — 
Be  cautious.— There— 'tis  done ;  and  now  away, 

*  Two  large  bags  containing  newspapers,  were  stolen  from  the 
boot  behind  the  Southern  Mail  Coach  yesterday  morning,  about  one 
o'clock,  between  New-Brunswick  and  Bridgetown.  The  straps  se 
curing  the  bags  in  the  boot  were  cut,  and  nothing  else  injured  or  re 
moved  therefrom.  The  letter  mails  are  always  carried  in  the  front 
boot  of  the  coach,  under  the  driver's  feet,  and  therefore  cannet  be 
so  easily  approached.— JV.  Y.  Er.  Post. 


64 

With  breath  drawn  in,  and  noiseless  step,  to  seek 
The  darkness  that  befits  so  dark  a  deed. 
Now  strike  your  light. — Ye  powers  that  look  upon  us ! 
What  have  we  here  ?    Whigs,  Sentinels,  Gazettes. 
Heralds,  and  Posts,  and  Couriers — Mercuries, 
Recorders,  Advertisers,  and  Intelligencers — 
Advocates  and  Auroras. — There,  what's  that ! 
That's — a  Price  Current. 

I  do  venerate 

The  man,  who  rolls  the  smooth  and  silky  sheet 
Upon  the  well  cut  copper.     I  respect 
The  worthier  names  of  those  who  sign  bank  bills : 
And,  though  no  literary  man,  I  love 
To  read  their  short  and  pithy  sentences. 
But  I  hate  types  and  printers — and  the  gang 
Of  editors  and  scribblers.     Their  remarks, 
Essays,  songs,  paragraphs  and  prophecies, 
I  utterly  detest.     And  these,  particularly, 
Are  just  the  meanest  and  most  rascally, 
"  Stale  and  unprofitable"  publications, 
I  ever  read  in  my  life. 


SONNET 

TO  THE  SEA-SERPENT. 


"  Hugest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream." 

WELTER  upon  the  waters,  mighty  one- 
And  stretch  thee  in  the  ocean's  trough  of  brine  ; 

Turn  thy  wet  scales  up  to  the  wind  and  sun, 
And  toss  the  billow  from  thy  flashing  fin  ; 
Heave  thy  deep  breathings  to  the  ocean's  din. 

And  bound  upon  its  ridges  in  thy  pride  : 

Or  dive  down  to  its  lowest  depths,  and  in 
The  caverns  where  its  unknown  monsters  hide, 
Measure  thy  length  beneath  the  gulf-stream's  tide 

Or  rest  thee  on  that  navel  of  the  sea 
Where,  floating  on  the  Maelstrom,  abide 

The  krakens  sheltering  under  Norway's  lee  ; 
But  go  not  to  Nahant,  lest  men  should  swear, 
You  are  a  great  deal  bigger  than  you  are. 


"  AES  ALIENUM." 

HISPANIA  !  oh,  Hispania !  once  my  home — 
How  hath  thy  fall  degraded  every  son 
Who  owns  thee  for  a  birth-place.     They  who  walk 
Thy  marbled  courts  and  holy  sanctuaries, 
Or  tread  thy  olive  groves,  and  pluck  the  grapes 
That  cluster  there — or  dance  the  saraband 
By  moonlight,  to  some  Moorish  melody — 
Or  whistle  with  the  Muleteer,  along 
Thy  goat-climb'd  rocks  and  awful  precipices ; 
How  do  the  nations  scorn  them  and  deride  ! 
And  they  who  wander  where  a  Spanish  tongue 
Was  never  heard,  and  where  a  Spanish  heart 
Had  never  beat  before,  how  poor,  how  shunn'd. 
Avoided,  undervalued,  and  debased, 
Move  they  among  the  foreign  multitudes! 
Once  I  was  bright  to  the  world's  eye,  and  pass'd 
Among  the  nobles  of  my  native  land 
In  Spain's  armorial  bearings,  deck'd  and  gtampt 
With  Royalty's  insignia,  and  I  claimed 
And  took  the  station  of  my  high  descent ; 
But  the  cold  world  has  cut  a  cantle  out 


67 


From  my  escutcheon — and  now  here  I  am. 
A  poor,  depreciated  pistareen.* 


THE  GUERRILLA. 

THOUGH  friends  are  false,  and  leaders  fai 

And  rulers  quake  with  fear  ; 
Though  tam'd  the  shepherd  in  the  vale, 

Though  slain  the  mountaineer  ; 
Though  Spanish  beauty  fill  their  arms. 

And  Spanish  gold  their  purse — 
Sterner  than  wealth's  or  war's  alarms. 

Is  the  wild  Guerrilla's  curse. 

No  trumpets  range  us  to  the  fight : 

No  signal  sound  of  drum 
Tells  to  the  foe,  that  in  their  might 

The  hostile  squadrons  come. 
No  sunbeam  glitters  on  our  spears, 

No  warlike  tramp  of  steeds 
Gives  warning — for  the  first  that  hear. 

Shall  be  the  first  that  bleeds. 

*  This  coin  passed  at  the  time  for  but  eighteen  cents. 


68 

The  night  breeze  calls  us  from  our  be*.,. 

At  dewfall  forms  the  line, 
And  darkness  gives  the  signal  dread 

That  makes  our  ranks  combine  : 
Or  should  some  straggling  moonbeam  lie 

On  copse  or  lurking  hedge, 
'Twould  flash  but  from  a  Spaniard's  eye, 

Or  from  a  dagger's  edge. 

'Tis  clear  in  the  sweet  vale  below. 

And  misty  on  the  hill ; 
The  skies  shine  mildly  on  the  foe, 

But  lour  upon  us  still. 
This  gathering  storm  shall  quickly  burst. 

And  spread  its  terrors  far, 
And  at  its  front  we'll  be  the  first. 

And  with  it  go  to  war. 

Oh!  the  mountain  peak  shall  safe  remain— 

'Tis  the  vale  shall  be  despoil'd, 
And  the  tame  hamlets  of  the  plain 

With  ruin  shall  run  wild  ; 
But  Liberty  shall  breathe  our  air 

Upon  the  mountain  head, 
And  Freedom's  breezes  wander  here. 

Here  all  their  fragrance  shed. 


JACK  FROST  AND  THE  CATY-DID.* 

JACK  FROST. 

I  HEARD — 'twas  on  an  Autumn  night — 

A  little  song  from  yonder  tree  ; 
'Twas  a  Caty-did,  in  the  branches  hid, 

And  thus  sung  he  : 

"  FairCaty  sat  beside  yon  stream, 

Beneath  the  chestnut  tree  ; 
Each  star  sent  forth  its  brightest  gleam, 
And  the  moon  let  fall  her  softest  beam 

On  Caty  and  on  me. 

And  thus  she  wish'd — <  O,  could  I  sing 

Like  the  little  birds  in  May, 
With  a  satin  breast  and  a  silken  wing, 
And  a  leafy  home  by  this  gentle  spring, 

I'd  chirp  as  blithe  as  they. 

*  The  subject,  and  many  of  the  ideas,  were  suggested  by  a  friend. 

7* 


70 

The  Frog  in  the  water,  the  Cricket  on  land. 

The  Night-hawk  in  the  sky, 
With  the  Whipperwill  should  be  my  band. 
While  gayly  by  the  streamlet's  sand. 

The  Lightning-bug  should  fly.' 

Her  wish  is  granted — Off  she  fling? 

The  robes  that  her  beauty  hid ; 
She  wraps  herself  in  her  silken  wings, 
And  near  me  now  she  sits  and  sings, 

And  tells  what  Caty  did." 

A  beam  from  the  waning  moon  was  shot. 

Where  the  little  minstrel  hid. 
A  cobweb  from  the  cloud  was  let, 

And  down  I  boldly  slid. 

A  hollow  hailstone  on  my  head, 
For  a  glittering  helm  was  clasp'd, 

And  a  sharpen'd  spear,  like  an  icicle  clear. 
In  my  cold  little  fingers  was  grasp'd. 

Silent,  and  resting  on  their  arms, 

I  viewed  my  forces  nigh, 
Waiting  the  sign  on  earth  to  land, 

Or  bivouac  in  the  sky. 


71 

From  a  birchen  bough,  which  yellow  turn'd 

Beneath  my  withering  lance ; 
I  pointed  them  to  that  glassy  pool, 

And  silently  they  advanced. 

The  water  crisp'd  beneath  their  feet 

It  never  felt  their  weights  ; 
And  nothing  but  the  rising  sun, 

Show'd  traces  of  their  skates. 

No  horn  I  sounded,  no  shout  I  made. 

But  I  lifted  my  vizor  lid, 
My  felt-shod  foot  on  the  leaf  I  put, 

And  kilPd  the  Caty-did. 

Her  song  went  down  the  southern  wind, 
Her  last  breath  up  the  stream ; 

But  a  rustling  branch  is  left  behind. 
To  fan  her  wakeless  dream. 


MR.  MERRY'S 

LAMENT  FOR  « LONG  TOM," 

Whose  Drowning  is  mentioned  in  the  sixth  chapter  of  the 

second  volume  of  THE  PILOT,  by  the  author  of 

The  Pioneers. 


"  Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore." 


THY  cruise  is  over  now, 

Thou  art  anchor'd  by  the  shore. 
And  never  more  shall  thou 

Hear  the  storm  around  thee  roar ; 
Death  has  shaken  out  the  sands  of  thy  glass. 
Now  around  thee  sports  the  whale, 
And  the  porpoise  snuffs  the  gale, 
And  the  night-winds  wake  their  wail, 
As  they  pass. 


73 

The  sea-grass  round  thy  bier 

Shall  bend  beneath  the  tide. 
Nor  tell  the  breakers  near 

Where  thy  manly  limbs  abide  ; 
But  the  granite  rock  thy  tombstone  shall  be, 
Though  the  edges  of  thy  grave 
Are  tht  combings  of  the  wave — 
Yet  unheeded  they  shall  rave 
Over  thee. 

At  the  piping  of  all  hands, 

When  the  judgment  signal's  spread- 
When  the  islands,  and  the  lands, 

And  the  seas  give  up  their  dead, 
And  the  south  and  the  north  shall  come  : 
When  the  sinner  is  betray'd, 
And  the  just  man  is  afraid. 
Then  Heaven  be  thy  aid, 
Poor  Tom. 


ON  THE 


DEATH  OF  MR.  WOODWARD, 

AT  EDINBURGH. 


"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread, 
Is  cord — is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss  ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 


ANOTHER  !  'tis  a  sad  word  to  the  heart, 
That  one  by  one  has  lost  its  hold  on  life. 

From  all  it  lov'd  or  valued,  forc'd  to  part 
In  detail.     Feeling  dies  not  by  the  knife 
That  cuts  at  once  and  kills — its  tortur'd  strife 

Is  with  distilled  affliction,  drop  by  drop 
Oozing  its  bitterness.     Our  world  is  rife 

With  grief  and  sorrow  ;  all  that  we  would  prop, 

Or  would  be  propp'd  with,  falls — when  shall  the  ruin 
stop ! 


75 

The  sea  has  one,  and  Palestine  has  one, 
And  Scotland  has  the  last.     The  snooded  maid 

Shall  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  stranger's  stone, 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  with  her  tartan  plaid — 
And  from  the  lonely  tomb  where  thou  art  laid, 

Turn  to  some  other  monument — nor  know 

Whose  grave  she  passes,  or  whose  name  she  read  ; 

Whose  lov'd  and  honoured  relics  lie  below  ; 

Whose  is  immortal  joy,  and  whose  is  mortal  wo. 

There  is  a  world  of  bliss  hereafter — else 
Why  are  the  bad  above,  the  good  beneath 

The  green  grass  of  the  grave  ?     The  Mower  fells 
Flowers  and  briers  alike.     But  man  shall  breathe 
(When  he  his  desolating  blade  shall  sheathe 

And  rest  him  from  his  work)  in  a  pure  sky, 

Above  the  smoke  of  burning  worlds  ; — and  Death 

On  scorched  pinions  with  the  dead  shall  lie, 

When  time,  with   all  his  years  and  centuries,  has 
passed  by. 


TO  THE  DEAD. 

How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sick'ning,  sinking  look  which  we 

Till  dead  can  ne'er  forget. 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison — far  away, 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 
And  never  hope,  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me ; 

Though  months  and  years  have  pass'd. 
In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 
And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see 

As  when  1  saw  him  last. 


77 

And  one  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek  ! 
His  lip  was  cold — it  would  not  speak ; 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break : 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 

And  for  the  dead  the  smile ; 
Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom — 
Dim  is  such  glare :  but  bright  the  gloom 

Around  the  funeral  pile. 


THE  DEEP. 

THERE'S  beauty  in  the  deep  : 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ; 
And  though  the  lights  shine  bright  on  higli 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below  ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 
8 


78 

And  Sun  and  Moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 
There's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There's  music  in  the  deep  :— 
It  is  not  in  the  surfs  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea  nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood. 
Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay. 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There's  music  in  the  deep. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep  :— 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend, 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end : 
Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam. 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home. 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 

WHO  bleeds  in  the  desert,  faint,  naked,  and  torn, 

Left  lonely  to  wait  for  the  coming  of  morn  ? 

The  last  sigh  from  his  breast,  the  last  drop  from  his 

heart, 

The  last  tear  from  his  eyelid,  seem  ready  to  part. 
He  looks  to  the  east  with  a  death-swimming  eye, 
Once  more  the  blest  beams  of  the  morning  to  spy ; 
For  penniless,  friendless,  and  houseless  he's  lying, 
And  he  shudders  to  think,  that  in  darkness  he's  dying. 
Yon  meteor ! — 'tis  ended  as  soon  as  begun — 
Yon  gleam  of  the  lightning  !  it  is  not  the  sun  ; 
They  brighten  and  pass — but  the  glory  of  day 
Is  warm  while  it  shines,  and  does  good  on  its  way. 

How  brightly  the  morning  breaks  out  from  the  east ! 
Who  walks  down  the  path  to  get  tithes  for  his  priest  ?* 
It  is  not  the  Robber  who  plundered  and  fled; 
'Tis  a  Levite.    He  turns  from  the  wretched  his  head. 

*  Numbers,  xviii. 


80 

Who  walks  in  his  robes  from  Jerusalem's  halls  ? 
Who  comes  to  Samaria  from  Ilia's  walls  ? 
There  is  pride  in  his  step — there  is  hate  in  his  eye  :  j 
There  is  scorn  on  his  lip,  as  he  proudly  walks  by. 
'Tis  thy  Priest,  thou  proud  city,  now  splendid  and 

fair ; 
A  few  years  shall  pass  thee, — and  who  shall  be  there  ?| 

Mount  Gerizim  looks  on  the  valleys  that  spread 
From  the  foot  of  high  Ebal,  to  Esdrelon's  head  ; 
The  torrent  of  Kison  rolls  black  through  the  plain. 
And  Tabor  sends  out  its  fresh  floods  to  that  main, 
Which,  purpled  with  fishes,  flows  rich  with  the  dies 
That  flash  from  their  fins,  and  shine  out  from  their 

eyes.* 

How  sweet  are  the  streams:  but  how  purer  the  foun 
tain, 
That  gushes  and  wells  from  Samaria's  mountain! 

From  Galilee's  city  the  Cuthite  comes  out, 

And  by  Jordan-wash'd  Thirza,  with  purpose  devout, 

*  D'Auville,  by  the  way,  says  the  fish  from  which  the  famous  pui> 
pie  die  was  obtained  were  shell-fish  :  but  this  is  doubted. 


81 

To  pay  at  the  altar  of  Gerizim's  shrine, 
And  offer  his  incense  of  oil  and  of  wine. 
He  follows  his  heart,  that  with  eagerness  longs 
For  Samaria's  anthems,  and  Syria's  songs. 

He  sees  the  poor  Hebrew :  he  stops  on  the  way. 
—By  the  side  of  the  wretched  'tis  better  to  pray. 
Than  to  visit  the  holiest  temple  that  stands 
In  the  thrice  blessed  places  of  Palestine's  lands. 
The  oil  that  was  meant  for  Mount  Gerazim's  ground, 
Would  better  be  pour'd  on  the  sufferer's  wound ; 
For  no  incense  more  sweetly,  more  purely  can  rise 
From  the  altars  of  earth  to  the  throne  of  the  skies, 
No  libation  more  rich  can  be  offer'd  below, 
Than  that  which  is  tendered  to  anguish  and  wo. 


THE  NOSEGAY. 

I'LL  pull  a  bunch  of  buds  and  flowers, 

And  tie  a  ribbon  round  them, 
If  you'll  but  think,  in  your  lonely  hours, 

Of  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them, 
8* 


82 

I'll  cull  the  earliest  that  put  forth, 
And  those  that  last  the  longest ; 

And  the  bud,  that  boasts  the  fairest  birth. 
Shall  cling  to  the  stem  that's  strongest. 

I've  run  about  the  garden  walks, 
And  search'd  among  the  dew,  sir  ; — 

These  fragrant  flowers,  these  tender  stalks. 
I've  pluck'd  them  all  for  you,  sir. 

So  here's  your  bunch  of  buds  and  flowers, 
And  here's  the  ribbon  round  them  ; 

And  here,  to  cheer  your  sadden'd  hours. 
Is  the  sweet  little  girl  that  bound  them. 


TO  A  STRING 

TIED   ROUND   A   FINGER. 


Et  haec  olim  rneminisse  juvabit. 


THE  bell  that  strikes  the  warning  hour. 

Reminds  me  that  I  should  not  linger, 
And  winds  around  my  heart  its  power, 

Tight  as  the  string  around  my  finger. 

A  sweet  good-night  I  give,  and  then 

Far  from  my  thoughts  I  need  must  fling  her. 

Who  bless'd  that  lovely  evening,  when 
She  tied  the  string  around  my  finger. 

Lovely  and  virtuous,  kind  and  fair, 

A  sweet-toned  belle,  Oh !   who  shall  ring  her  ! 
Of  her  let  bellmen  all  beware, 

Who  tie  such  strings  around  their  finger. 


84 

What  shall  I  do  ?— I'll  sit  me  down, 
And,  in  my  leisure  hours,  I'll  sing  her 

Who  gave  me  neither  smile  nor  frown, 
But  tied  a  thread  around  my  finger. 

Now  may  the  quiet  star-lit  hours 

Their  gentlest  dews  and  perfumes  bring  her  ; 
And  morning  show  its  sweetest  flowers 

To  her  whose  string  is  round  my  finger. 

And  never  more  may  1  forget 

The  spot  where  I  so  long  did  linger ; — 
But  watch  another  chance,  and  get 

Another  string  around  my  finger. 


SALMON  RIVER. 


Hie  viridis  tenera  praetexit  arundine  ripas 
Mincius. — VIRGIL. 


>Tis  a  sweet  stream—and  so,  His  true,  are  all 
That  undisturb'd,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their  way 

By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  the  deluge  fix'd  has  stood. 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet,  there's  something  in  its  humble  rank, 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 
With  unscar'd  look  ; 

*  This  river  enters  into  the  Connecticut  at  East-Haddam. 


86 

There's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that's  superstitious — and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 
In  that  small  brook. 

9 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropp'd  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain — 

And  many  a  quiver, 

Fill'd  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  'tis  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 

From  Salmon  River. 

Here,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  Magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequester'd  rock,  or  dark'ning  glade, 

Or  tangled  dell. 

Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 


87 

And  here  the  black  fox  rov'd,  that  howl'd  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox ; 

Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stript  and  dress'd,  to  wear, 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  they  tell.     'Tis  hard  to  rhyme 
About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 
That  few  have  heard  of— but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love  ; 

And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river — which,  if  there  be  need. 

I'll  try  to  prove. 


88 


THE  lines  below  are  founded  on  a  legend,  that  is  as  well 
authenticated  as  any  superstition  of  the  kind  ;  and  as  current 
in  the  place  where  it  originated,  as  could  be  expected  of  one 
that  possesses  so  little  interest. 

THE    BLACK    FOX 

OF  SALMON  RIVER. 

"'  How  cold,  how  beautiful,  how  bright, 
The  cloudless  heaven  above  us  shines ; 

But  'tis  a  howling  winter's  night — 
'Twould  freeze  the  very  forest  pines. 

"  The  winds  are  up,  while  mortals  sleep  ; 

The  stars  look  forth  when  eyes  are  shut ; 
The  bolted  snow  lies  drifted  deep 

Around  our  poor  and  lonely  hut. 

"  With  silent  step  and  listening  ear, 
With  bow  and  arrow,  dog  and  gun, 

We'll  mark  his  track,  for  his  prowl  we  hear. 
Now  is  our  time — come  on,  come  on." 


89 

O'er  many  a  fence,  through  many  a  wood, 
Following  the  dog's  bewildered  scent, 

In  anxious  haste  and  earnest  mood, 
The  Indian  and  the  white  man  went. 

The  gun  is  cock'd,  the  bow  is  bent, 
The  dog  stands  with  uplifted  paw, 

And  ball  and  arrow  swift  are  sent, 
Aim'd  at  the  prowler's  very  jaw. 

—The  ball,  to  kill  that  fox,  is  run 
Not  in  a  mould  by  mortals  made  ! 

The  arrow  that  that  fox  should  shun, 
Was  never  shap'd  from  earthly  reed ! 

The  Indian  Druids  of  the  wood 

Know  where  the  fatal  arrows  grow — 

They  spring  not  by  the  summer  flood, 

They  pierce  not  through  the  winter  snow ! 

Why  cowers  the  dog,  whose  snuffing  nose 
Was  never  once  deceiv'd  till  now  ? 

And  why,  amid  the  chilling  snows, 
Does  either  hunter  wipe  his  brow  ? 
9 


90 

For  once  they  see  his  fearful  den, 
'Tis  a  dark  cloud  that  slowly  moves 

By  night  around  the  homes  of  men, 
By  day — along  the  stream  it  loves. 

Again  the  dog  is  on  his  track, 
The  hunters  chase  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

They  may  not,  though  they  would,  look  back. 
They  must  go  forward — forward  still. 

Onward  they  go,  and  never  turn, 
Spending  a  night  that  meets  no  day ; 

For  them  shall  never  morning  sun, 
Light  them  upon  their  endless  way. 

The  hut  is  desolate,  and  there 
The  famish' d  dog  alone  returns  ; 

On  the  cold  steps  he  makes  his  lair, 
By  the  shut  door  he  lays  his  bones. 

Now  the  tir'd  sportsman  leans  his  gun 

Against  the  ruins  of  the  site, 
And  ponders  on  the  hunting  done 

By  the  lost  wanderers  of  the  night. 


91 


And  there  the  little  country  girls 

Will  stop  to  whisper,  and  listen,  and  look. 
And  tell,  while  dressing  their  sunny  curls, 

Of  the  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  Brook. 


WITH  gallant  sail  and  streamer  ga>. 

Sweeping  along  the  splendid  hay, 

That,  throng'd  hy  thousands,  seems  to  greet 

The  bearer  of  a  precious  freight, 

The  Cadmus  comes  ;  and  every  wave 

Is  glad  the  welcom'd  prow  to  lave. 

What  are  the  ship  and  freight  to  me — 
I  look  for  one  that's  on  the  sea. 

hi  Welcome  FAYETTE,"  the  million  cries; 
From  heart  to  heart  the  ardour  flies, 
And  drum,  and  bell,  and  cannon  noise, 
In  concord  with  a  nation's  voice, 
Is  pealing  through  a  grateful  land, 
And  all  go  with  him. — Here  I  stand, 
Musing  on  one  that's  dear  to  me, 
Yet  sailing  on  the  dangerous  sea. 


92 

Be  thy  days  happy  here,  FAYETTE— 
Long  may  they  be  so — long — but  yet 
To  me  there's  one  that,  dearest  still. 
Clings  to  my  heart  and  chains  my  will. 
His  languid  limbs  and  feverish  head 
Are  laid  upon  a  sea-sick  bed. 

Perhaps  his  thoughts  are  fix'd  on  me. 
While  toss'd  upon  the  mighty  sea. 

I  am  alone.     Let  thousands  throng 
The  noisy,  crowded  streets  along : 
Sweet  be  the  beam  of  Beauty's  gaze — 
Loud  be  the  shout  that  Freemen  raise — 
Let  Patriots  grasp  thy  noble  hand, 
And  welcome  thee  to  Freedom's  land  ; — 
Alas  !  I  think  of  none  but  he 
Who  sails  across  the  foaming  sea. 

So,  when  the  moon  is  shedding  light 
Upon  the  stars,  and  all  is  bright 
And  beautiful ;  when  every  eye 
Looks  upwards  to  the  glorious  sky : 
How  have  I  turn'd  my  silent  gaze 
To  catch  one  little  taper's  blaze: — 
'Twas  from  a  spot  too  dear  to  me, 
The  home  of  him  that's  on  the  sea. 


PRESIDENTIAL  COTILLION 


Carmina  turn  melius,  cum  venerit  IPSE  canemus. 

VIRG.  Bucolica,  Eel.  ix. 


CASTLE  GARDEN  was  splendid  one  night — though 

the  wet 

Put  off  for  some  evenings  the  ball  for  FAYETTE. 
The  arrangements  were  rich,  the  occasion  was  pat, 
And  the  whole  was  in  style ; — but  I  sing  not  of  that. 

Ye  Graces,  attend  to  a  poet's  condition, 

And  bring  your  right  heels  to  the  second  position  ; 

I  sing  of  a  dance  such  as  never  was  seen 

On  fairy-tripped  meadow,  or  muse-haunted  green. 

The  length  of  the  room,  and  the  height  of  the  hall. 
The  price  of  the  tickets,  the  cost  of  the  ball, 
And  the  sums  due  for  dresses,  I'm  glad  to  forget — 
I'd  rather  pay  off  the  whole  national  debt. 
9* 


94 

The  fiddlers  were  Editors,  rang'd  on  the  spot, 
There  were  strings  that  were  rosin'd,  and  strings  that 

were  not ; 

Who  furnish'd  the  instruments  I  do  not  know, 
But  each  of  the  band  drew  a  very  long  bow. 

They  screw'd  up  their  pegs,   and  they  shoulderM 

their  fiddles  ; 

They  finger'd  the  notes  of  their  hey-diddle-diddles ; 
Spectators  look'd  on — they  were  many  a  million, 
To  see  the  performers  in  this  great  cotillion. 

One  Adams  first  led  Miss  Diplomacy  out, 
And  Crawford  Miss  Money — an  heiress  no  doubt : 
And  Jackson  Miss  Dangerous,  a  tragical  actor, 
And  Clay,  Madam  Tariff,  of  home  manufacture. 

There  was  room  for  a  set  just  below,  and  each  buck 
Had  a  belle  by  his  side,  like  a  drake  with  his  duck  : 
But  the  first  set  attracted  the  whole  room's  attention, 
For  they  cut  the  capers  most  worthy  of  mention. 

They  bow'd    and  they  curtsied,    round   went  all 

eight, 
Right  foot  was  the  word,  and  chasse  was  the  gait ; 


95 

Then  they  balanc'd  to  partners,  and  turn'd  them 

about, 
And  each  one  alternate  was  in  and  was  out. 

Some  kick'd  and  some  floundered,  some  set  and  some 

bounded, 

'Till  the  music  was  drown'd — the  figure  confounded  ; 
Some  danc'd  dos  a  dos,  and  some  danc'd  contreface, 
And  some  promenaded — and  all  lost  their  place. 

In  the  midst  of  this  great  pantomimic  ballette, 
What  guest  should  arrive  but  the  great  LA  FAYETTE  1 
The  dancers  all  bow'd,  and  the  fiddlers  chang'd  tune, 
Like  Apollo's  banjo  to  the  man  in  the  moon. 

How  sweet  were  the  notes,  and  how  bold  was  the 

strain ! 

O,  when  shall  we  list  to  such  concord  again  ? 
The  hall  was  sky-cover'd  with  Freedom's  bright  arch. 
And  it  rung  to  the  music  of  Liberty's  march. 


96 


THERE  were  but  sixty-nine  new  entries  on  the  docket  of 
tlie  Hartford  County  Court  at  its  late  session.  One  of  the 
most  important  causes  is  reported  below. 

SCIRE  FACIAS.* 

THE  BAR  versus  THE  DOCKET. 

THIS  action  was  brought  to  get  cash  from  the  pocket 
Of  a  debtor  absconding  and  absent,  call'd  Docket— 
For  damage  sustain'd  by  the  Bar,  through  the  laches] 
Of  him  by  whose  means  the  said  Bar  cut  their  dashes. 

They  copied  the  constable,  thinking  that  he 

Might  have  goods  in  his  hands,  and  be  made  Gar- 

nishee  ;| 

Who,  being  thus  summon'd  to  show  cause,  appeared 
To  state  to  the  court  why  he  should  not  be  shear'd.§ 


*  Make  him  to  know. 

t  Neglect.  .    , 

J  One  who,  being  supposed  to  have  in  his  hands  the  property  ot 
an  absconded  debtor,  is  cited  to  show  whether  he  has  or  not. 
$  Not  a  law  term,  but  rather  a  termination  in  law. 


97 

Whereas,  said  the  Plaintiffs,  you  owe  us  our  living 
By  assumpsit  implied,  and  the  costs  you  must  give 

in — 

You  have  cheated  us  out  of  our  bread  and  our  butter, 
El  alia  enormia,*  too  numerous  to  utter. 

Thus  solemnly  spoke  the  Bar's  counsel,  and  sigh'd — 
The  Garnishee  plainly  and  frankly  replied, 
That  he  had  no  effects,  and  could  not  get  enough 
To  pay  his  own  debt,  which  he  thought  rather  tough. 

Then  came  pleas  and  rejoinders,  rebutters,  demur 
rers, 

Such  as  Chitty  would  plough  into  Richard  Roe's  fur 
rows  ; — 

Cross  questions,  and  very  cross  answers,  to  suit — 

So  the  gist  of  the  case  was  the  point  in  dispute.! 

The  Judges  look'd  grave,  as  indeed  well  they  might. 
For  one  party  was  wrong,  and  the  other  not  right ; 
The  sweeper  himself  thought  it  cruel  to  sue 
A  man,  just  because  he  had  nothing  to  do, 

*  And  other  enormities. 

t  This  is  usually  the  fact  before  the  County  Court,  and  indeed 
before  all  other  Courts. 


98 

The  Docket  non  ested*  the  Garnishee  prov'd, 
That  the  chattels  were  gone  and  the  assets  remov'd — 
That  they  had  not  been  heard  of  for  full  half  a  year. 
So  he  took  to  the  Statute,  and  swore  himself  clear. 

The  case  being  simple  in  English,  the  Bench 
Resorted,  of  course,  to  their  old  Norman  French  5 
But  the  Bar  being  frighten'd,  thought  best  to  defer  it, 
And  pray  out  the  writ  latitat  et  discurrii.l 

Then  a  motion  was  made  by  the  learned  debaters, 
That  the  sheriff  should  call  out  the  whole  comitatus — J 
Read  the  act — tell  the  posse,  instanter  to  hook  it, 
And  send  the  whole  hue  and  cry  after  the  Docket. 

*  Not  to  be  found. 

r  Lurks  and  wanders. 

t  Posse  comitalus— power  of  the  County. 


JERUSALEM. 

THE  following  paragraph  from  the  Mercantile  Advertiser, 
suggested  the  lines  below  it. 

The  following  intelligence  from  Constantinople  is  of  the 
1 1th  ult. — "  A  severe  earthquake  is  said  to  have  taken  place 
at  Jerusalem,  which  has  destroyed  great  part  of  that  city, 
shaken  down  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  and  reduced  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  to  ruins  from  top  to  bottom." 

FOUR  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves — 
Godfrey's  and  Baldwin's — Salem's  Christian  kings; 

And  holy  light  glanc'd  from  Helena's  naves, 

Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  Pilgrim  brings, — 
While  through  the  pannell'd  roof  the  cedar  flings 

Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 
And  every  porphyry-pillar'd  cloister  rings 

To  every  kneeler  there  its  "  welcome  home," 

As  every  lip  breathes  out,  "  O  Lord,  thy  kingdom 
come." 

A  mosque  was  garnish'd  with  its  crescent  moons, 
And  a  clear  voice  call'd  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 


100 

There  were  the  splendours  of  Judea's  thrones — 
There  were  the  trophies  which    its   conquerors 

wear — 

All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there  : — 
For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 

And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 
Singing  to  all  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 
That  verse  misunderstood,  "  There  is  no  God  but 
God." 

Hark  !  did  the  Pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneel'd  ? 

And  did  the  turban'd  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands,  the  elements  that  wield 

That  mighty  power  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless. 

Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 
His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  He  can  see 

Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness, 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  see 
That  He  is  very  God,  the  only  Deity. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once  that  rent  thy  fane, 
Proud  Julian  ;  when  (against  the  prophecy 

Of  Him  who  HvM,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 
"  That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie,") 
Thou  would'st  rebuild  that  Jewish  masonry 


101 

To  mock  the  eternal  word. — The  earth  below 
Gush'd  out  in  fire  ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky, 
And  from  the  boiling  seas  such  wrath  did  flow, 
As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  overthrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes.     Dome,  roof,  and  wall 
Tremble  ;  and  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 

And  in  the  muddied  stream  the  fragments  fall, 
While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank 
At  one  huge  draught,  the  sediment,  which  sank 

In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  Power  ! 

Thou  whom  we  all  should  worship,  praise,  and 
thank, 

Where  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 

When  hell  mov'd  from   beneath,    and  thine  own 
heaven  did  lower  ? 

Say,  Pilate's  palaces — say,  proud  Herod's  towers- 
Say,  gate  of  Bethlehem,  did  your  arches  quake  ? 

Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  fill'd  with  show'rs  ? 
Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake  ? 
Tomb  of  thee,  Mary — Virgin — did  it  shake  ? 

Glow'd  thy  bought  field,  Aceldema,  with  blood  ? 
Where  were  the  shudderings  Calvary  might  make '.' 

Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood, 

To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  God  had  stood  '• 
10 


102 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews — great  sepulchre 
Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things — 

Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 
To  make  thee  what  thou  art !  thy  history  brings 
Thoughts  mix'd  of  joy  and  wo.     The  whole  earth 
rings 

With  the  sad  truth  which  He  has  prophesied, 
Who  would  have  shelter' d  with  his  holy  wings 

Thee  and  thy  children.     You  his  power  defied  : 

You  scourg'd  him  while  he  liv'd,  and  mock'd  him  as 
he  died! 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky, 

That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker  made — 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high ; — 

'Twill  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall  fade. 

Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid  ! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine ! 

Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismay'd, 
Though  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crush'd  and  ruin'd  all — which  men  have 
call'd  divine. 

NOTE  TO  THE  VERSES.— Godfrey  and  Baldwin  xvere  the  first 
Christian  Kings  at  Jerusalem.  The  Empress  Helena,  mother  of 
Constantino  the  Great,  built  the  church  of  the  sepulchre  on  Mount 


ISAIAH   THIRTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER. 

A  ROSE  shall  bloom  in  the  lonely  place, 
A  wild  shall  echo  with  sounds  of  joy, 

For  heaven's  own  gladness  its  bounds  shall  grace, 
And  forms  angelic  their  songs  employ. 

And  Lebanon's  cedars  shall  rustle  their  boughs, 
And  fan  their  leaves  in  the  scented  air  ; 

And  Carmel  and  Sharon  shall  pay  their  vows, 
And  shout,  for  the  glory  of  God  is  there. 

Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone  and  the  roof  of  cedar.  The  four 
lamps  which  light  it  are  very  costly.  It  is  kept  in  repair  by  the  offer 
ings  of  Pilgrims  who  resort  to  it.  The  Mosque  was  originally  a 
Jewish  Temple.  The  Emperor  Julian  undertook  to  rebuild  the  tem 
ple  of  Jerusalem  at  very  great  expense,  to  disprove  the  prophecy  of 
our  Saviour,  as  it  was  understood  by  the  Jews;  but  the  work  and  the 
workmen  were  destroyed  by  an  earthquake.  The  pools  of  Bethesdst 
and  Gihon — the  tomb  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  of  King  Jehosha- 
phat — the  pillar  of  Absalom — the  tomb  of  Zachariah — and  the 
campo  santOj  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  purcha 
sed  with  the  price  of  Judas'  treason,  are,  or  were  lately,  the  most 
interesting  parts  of  Jerusalem. 


104 

O,  say  to  the  fearful,  be  strong  of  heart, 
He  comes  in  vengeance,  but  not  for  thee : 

For  thee  he  comes,  his  might  to  impart 

To  the  trembling  hand  and  the  feeble  knee. 

The  blind  shall  see,  the  deaf  shall  hear, 
The  dumb  shall  raise  their  notes  for  him, 

The  lame  shall  leap  like  the  unharm'd  deer, 
And  the  thirsty  shall  drink  of  the  holy  stream. 

And  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool. 
And  the  thirsty  land  a  dew-wash'd  mead, 

And  where  the  wildest  beasts  held  rule, 
The  harmless  of  his  fold  shall  feed. 

There  is  a  way,  and  a  holy  way, 

Where  the  unclean  foot  shall  never  tread, 

But  from  it  the  lowly  shall  not  stray, 
To  it  the  penitent  shall  be  led. 

No  lion  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lair, 
Nor  wild  beast  raven  in  foaming  rage  ; 

But  the  redeemed  of  the  earth  shall  there 
Pursue  their  peaceful  pilgrimage. 


105 

The  ransom'd  of  God  shall  return  to  him 
With  the  chorus  of  joy  to  an  Angel's  lay ; 

With  a  tear  of  grief  shall  no  eye  be  dim, 
For  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

WHAT  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy" 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of? — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  Equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops — he  had  not  sigh'd. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  Hunter  now  : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 

10* 


106 

The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  Autumn  leaves 


WRITTEN  IN  A 

COMMON-PLACE  BOOK. 

SEE  to  your  book,  young  lady  ;  let  it  be 
An  index  to  your  life — each  page  be  pure, 
By  vanity  uncoloured,  and  by  vice 
Unspotted.     Cheerful  be  each  modest  leaf, 
Not  rude  ;  and  pious  be  each  written  page. 
Without  hypocrisy,  be  it  devout ; 
Without  moroseness,  be  it  serious  ; 
If  sportive,  innocent :  and  if  a  tear 
Blot  its  white  margin,  let  it  drop  for  those 
Whose  wickedness  needs  pity  more  than  hate. 
Hate  no  one — hate  their  vices,  not  themselves. 
Spare  many  leaves  for  charity — that  flower 
That  .better  than  the  rose's  first  white  bud 
Becomes  a  woman's  bosom.     There  we  seek 
And  there  we  find  it  first.     Such  be  your  book, 
And  such,  young  lady,  always  may  you  be. 


ON  THE  LOSS   OF 

A   PIOUS    FRIEND. 

Imitated  from  the  5Jth  chapter  of  Isaiah. 

WHO  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ? 

Who  shall  mo,urn  when  the  good  depart  ? 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  fly. 

Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart? 

He  has  gone  into  peace — he  has  laid  him  down 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  ; 

And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 
When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 

But  ye  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 
Your  idol  gods,  whatever  they  be ; 

Who  scoff  in  your  pride  at  your  Maker's  name, 
By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree — 


108 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams. 
Bow  down  in  their  worship  and  loudly  pray ; 

Trust  in  your  strength  and  believe  in  your  dreams. 
But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 

There's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain, 
One  who  was  wash'd  in  a  purer  flood  : 

He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 
He  shall  worship  a  holier  Lord. 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die — 
Whelm'd  in  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea ; 

And  God  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high 
Shall  say,  there  is  no  peace  for  thee. 


THE  TWO  COMETS. 

There  were  two  visible  at  the  time  this  was  written  ;  and 
for  the  verses,  they  were,  on  other  accounts,  strictly  occ«- 
sional. 

THERE  once  dwelt  in  Olympus  some  notable  oddities, 
For  their  wild  singularities  call'd  Gods  and  God 
desses. — 


109 

But  one  in  particular  beat  'em  all  hollow, 
Whose  name,  style  and  title  was  Phoebus  Apollo. 

Now  Phoeb.  was  a  genius — his  hand  he  could  turn 
To  any  thing,  every  thing  genius  can  learn  : 
Bright,  sensible,  graceful,  cute,  spirited,  handy , 
Well  bred,  well  behav'd — a  celestial  Dandy  ! 
An  eloquent  god,  though  he  didn't  say  much  ; 
But  he  drew  a  long  bow,  spoke  Greek.  Latin  and 

Dutch  ; 

A  doctor,  a  poet,  a  soarer,  a  diver, 
And  of  horses  in  harness  an  excellent  driver. 

He  would  tackle  his   steeds  to  the  wheels  of  the 

sun, 

And  he  drove  up  the  east  every  morning,  but  one  ; 
When  young  Phaeton  begg'd  of  his  daddy  at  five. 
To  stay  with  Aurora  a  day,  and  he'd  drive. 
So  good  natur'd  Phoebus  gave  Phaey  the  seat. 
With  his  mittens,  change,   waybill,  and  stage-horn 

complete  ; 
To  the  breeze  of  the  morning  he  shook  his  bright 

locks, 
Blew  the  lamps  of  the  night  out,  and  mounted  the 

box. 


110 

The  crack  of  his  whip,  like  the  breaking  of  day, 
Warm'd  the  wax  in  the  ears  of  the  leaders,  and  they 
With  a  snort,  like  the  fog  of  the  morning,  clear'd  out 
For  the  west,  as  young  Phaey  meant  to  get  there 

about 
Two  hours  before  sunset. 

He  look'd  at  his  "  turnip," 

And  to  make  the  delay  of  the  old  line  concern  up, 
He  gave  'em  the  reins  ;  and  from  Aries  to  Cancer, 
The  style  of  his  drive  on  the  road  seem'd  to  answer : 
But  at  Leo,  the  ears  of  the  near  wheel-horse  prick'd, 
And  at  Virgo  the  heels  of  the  off  leader  kick'd  ; 
Over  Libra  the  whiffle-tree  broke  in  the  middle, 
And  the  traces  snapp'd  short,  like  the  strings  of  a 

fiddle. 

One  wheel  struck  near  Scorpio,  who  gave  it  a  roll, 
And  sent  it  to  buzz,  like  a  top,  round  the  pole  ; 
While  the  other  whizz'd  back  with  its  linchpin  and 

hub, 

Or,  more  learnedly  speaking,  its  nucleus  or  nub  : 
And,  whether  in  earnest,  or  whether  in  fun, 
He  carried  away  a  few  locks  of  the  sun. 


Ill 

The  state  of  poor  Phaeton's  coach  was  a  blue  one, 
And  Jupiter  order'd  Apollo  a  new  one  ; 
But  our  driver  felt  rather  too  proud  to  say  "  Whoa," 
Letting  horses,  and  harness,  and  every  thing  go 
At  their  terrified  pleasure  abroad  ;  and  the  muse 
Says,  they  cut  to  this   day  just  what  capers  they 

choose  ; 

That  the  eyes  of  the  chargers  as  meteors  shine  forth  ; 
That  their  manes  stream  along  in  the  lights   of  the 

north ; 
That  the  wheels  which  are  missing  are  comets,  that 

run 

As  fast  as  they  did  when  they  carried  the  sun ; 
And  still  pushing  forward,  though  never  arriving, 
Think  the  west  is  before  them,  and  Phaeton  driving. 


THE    END. 


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